


It Happened One Night

by SherlockWho



Series: Omegaverse Classic Film Series [1]
Category: It Happened One Night (1934), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU Omegaverse, Alpha!John, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Angst, Au first meeting, Bonding, Complete, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Knotting, M/M, Minor Molly Hooper/Greg Lestrade, Omega!Sherlock, Romance, Smut, Suicidal Thoughts, based on an old movie, but i love it, you might never have watched it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-17
Updated: 2016-07-09
Packaged: 2018-07-15 16:02:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 30,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7229203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SherlockWho/pseuds/SherlockWho
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is a Rogue Omega, on the run from societal expectations of his second-gender.  John is an invalided ex-army doctor Alpha who'd been stood up by his date prior to embarking on a round-trip tour from London to Sussex and back.  The attraction to each other they feel is complicated by the things they thought they'd wanted their whole lives and the fact that John is supposed to be delivering Sherlock to his intended, Beta doctor Molly Hooper.</p><p>There will be laughter, close calls, confused romance, lots of scenting and attraction, a desperate coupling, and eventually an A/O Johnlock pairing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Nothing Happens to Me

**Author's Note:**

> I am FINALLY breaking into the Alpha/Omega AU, and I'm doing it under the guise of some nostalgic film appreciation. Please be merciful as I stumble my way through this.
> 
> I did promise some fluff and silliness to counterbalance all the angst I've been writing lately, and I'm glad to report that this fic will be it.

“Sherlock, you will sit down and eat breakfast.”

“No, _Mummy_ , I will not.”  Sherlock stood stubbornly by the door to the dining room leading to his family’s vacation cottage in Sussex.  His words were defiant, but he was smug and self-satisfied; after all, it wasn’t _every_ day that he was able to put one over on his annoying Alpha brother.

“You _will_.  Unless you’ve found a magical way to consummate this ill-begotten union with Ms. Hooper—”

“Molly.”

“Whatever.  We both know that the Intent to Marry document you signed with her is not binding until you’ve found a way to consummate.”

“You mean copulate.”

Mycroft’s face collapsed on itself in distaste.  “That’s not even possible between a female Beta and a male Omega.  It’s preposterous.”

“Oh, I assure you, Mycroft, it’s not only possible, but it’s in my very near future.”  He sauntered closer to where his brother was attempting to ingest a large omelet.  “Would you like me to produce the source material I found on the subject?”

“No, that’s not necessary.”

“It’s no trouble, I assure you.  I’d be glad to do it.”  Sherlock smiled wolfishly at his older brother.  “My laptop may be _all the way over there_ ,” Sherlock said dramatically with a wave of his hand at the sideboard, loaded with all manner of rich breakfast foods, “but there is nothing I would not do to increase your knowledge, brother mine.”  He bent at the waist and produced a pen from the breast pocket of his jacket.  “I’ll even give you a sketch, right here on the dining room tablecloth.”

His mother’s voice rang from the hall.  “You will _not_ write on my tablecloths, William Sherlock Scott Holmes.”  She swept into the dining room, eyes flashing, and Sherlock folded into a chair like his strings had been cut.  “I am very disappointed in you.”

“Why, Mummy?” he asked, daring to be impertinent.  “Because I married _beneath_ me?”

She sighed and put a chafing dish that smelled amazing on the table, then waved her hand dramatically.  “Oh, you know I’ve never cared about that.  I don’t really care who you marry—” Sherlock snorted derisively, “as long as it’s for love.”

“Love is a chemical defect found on the losing side,” Sherlock parroted back, affecting one of Mycroft’s lazier drawls.  Mycroft responded by rolling his eyes.

“Bollocks,” Mrs. Holmes said.

Both of her sons looked at her with wide-mouthed shock.  “Oh, stop that,” she said.  “We’re all adults here, and frankly my patience is worn down.”  She took her own seat at the table and leveled her unnerving gaze at her youngest son.  “Have you forgotten I’ve met Molly Hooper?”

Sherlock pouted.  “No.”

She nodded.  “She’s gone on you, of course.  You’re one of the prettiest things she’s ever seen.”

Sherlock’s pout deepened into a snarl.  “I’m not _pretty_.”

“Oh, you most certainly are,” she responded, reaching across the table to open the chafing dish.  “Eat.”

Sherlock was in no mood to eat, even though her latest enticement was his favorite food: a breakfast hash loaded down with potatoes, chorizo, and fried eggs.  He sighed.  “Mummy, you know I can’t eat right now.”

She laughed.  “Oh, that’s rich.  You think you’re going into heat.”

“You don’t know I’m not.”

She leaned back in her chair, crossed her arms over herself, and glared.  “I’m an Omega, just the same as you.  At the very least give me credit for knowing what one of mine _smells_ like at the edge of heat.”  She sniffed and scooped a generous helping of the hash onto a plate, then set it in front of him.  “But whatever you say, Wills.”

“ _Sherlock_.”

“If you’re going into heat, then you know you need to eat something.  So _eat_.”  She set the plate down with a reverberating clatter.  An anxious potato threw itself from the plate in protest of the rough treatment.

“Mother, I am not yours to boss anymore, can’t you understand that?” Sherlock asked.  “Molly and I are married, legally married.  I’ll starve if I want to.  _She_ certainly would never try to force-feed me.”

“Then she’s not the mate you’ve been looking for and this decision of yours was even worse than we’d originally suspected,” Mycroft drawled.  He slathered some butter on toast.

“You, hush,” Mrs. Holmes said, pointing a fork at her eldest.  “You should have found an Omega ages ago.”

“They don’t make them in my style,” he said.

“Why do I try with you two?” she asked herself wearily.

“Because meddling is your birthright,” Sherlock huffed.  He speared the potato that had fallen on the table and popped it into his mouth.

“Sherlock.”  She took a deep breath and again fixed her gaze on him, but this time the softness was there, the maternal instinct she kept so tightly held back.  “Please, son.  Don’t do this.”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows and observed, then shoved away from the table and beat a hasty retreat.

Sherlock shook his head.  “Mother, I don’t care about all that—the bonding, the knotting, the breeding.  It’s all transport.  I don’t intend to have children and no Alpha will bring our family any more money or prestige, so a strategic pair-bond is irrelevant.  What possible reason—”

Mrs. Holmes took her son’s hand in both of hers, which stilled his impatient rant and forced him to pay attention to her.  What he saw in her eyes—pain, sadness, and a touch of fear—surprised him.

“Why are you so afraid of love?” she asked.

Sherlock frowned.  There was an answer to that question, but he had no desire to share it with her.  Besides, it wasn’t fear, but since there was no way to put a positive spin on it he would just end up sounding like a petulant child.  Instead he rose from the table.  “I’m going,” he said, buttoning his jacket closed and sweeping his coat into his arms.

She blew a small huff of breath across the surface of her teacup and examined him.  “You should probably leave that thing behind you,” she said softly.  “Mycroft will have the resources of the British Government’s Rogue Omega program at his disposal.”

Sherlock shoved his bottom lip out a little into the pout he knew generally got him whatever he wanted from her.  “Stop him.  Please.”

She shook her head.

He bolted.

 

* * *

 

John leaned back in the coach the tour had hired and sighed.

Yeah, it had probably been a mistake to ask Sarah to join him on this godforsaken excursion, but he had only himself to blame.  Sure, he could say it was his therapist’s fault, but she’d told him nothing more than that he should try harder to make friends, to make something happen—because apparently his face had been disturbing when she’d asked him to write down the things that happened to him.

_“Nothing happens to me.”_

But dammit, he’d know what he had been talking about.  Forcing the issue was a spectacularly bad idea.

He closed his eyes.  Maybe when he got back to his tiny bedsit he would finally make the decision he’d been putting off so long.  He was estranged from his family, he had no friends to speak of, only acquaintances, and he was getting a little too old for clubbing for dates.  His life was going nowhere fast, and for an Alpha man of action like John Watson, it was bitterly disappointing and completely untenable.

It would be a colossal waste of a man of his talents, and that was the only reason he’d resisted so long.  Surely this was no way to end it all?  Surely there was someone—even if it wasn’t the beautiful, dark-haired Omega of his dreams, somebody had to know how to utilize him?

Abruptly someone took a seat in the chair next to him, which had been empty on the ride to Dover and, he’d hoped, would remain empty.  After all, he’d paid for that seat.

He opened his eyes and simultaneously took in both the sight and the ( _oh my god so good_ ) smell of the Omega who’d seated himself next to him.

“William Scott,” the male Omega announced.  “Ticket for two?”  John nodded, dumbstruck.  “Well, then, this is your lucky day . . .?”  William’s hand hovered in his lower periphery.

“John Watson,” he said, dumbfounded.

“John Watson,” the stranger said, his deep voice suddenly warm and companionable.  “We’re going to be great friends, you and I.”

“Why would we be such great friends?” John asked.

“Because, for a healthy sum of money, you’re going to take me home to London.”  William tapped the arm of the seat he’d taken.  “I’m sure it’ll be enough to get your companion home in whatever fashion she’d prefer.”

“Companion?”

“You didn’t hire two seats for yourself,” William said chummily as he stretched out his legs and sank a little into the worn upholstery.  “You’re an invalided soldier recently home from . . .at a guess, Afghanistan, and you can’t afford to hire two seats on a tour coach just because you’re antisocial and suffering from PTSD.  You’re clearly more romantically interested in females,” he said with a dismissive sniff, “probably due to your shorter stature.  Either way you’re not that interested in the companion for whom you hired this seat, since you’re not anxiously watching the entrance to the coach—“

“She didn’t come,” John said.

“No?  Not at all?”

John ground his teeth.  “Not at all.”

“Fantastic, even better.”

John squinted at his new “friend” and pressed his lips together.  There were so many questions vying for the opportunity to be asked, but the only one that made its way past his lips was “How _much_ money?”

“Oh, loads,” William said with a dismissive flick of his wrist.  “You’ll have no problem at all moving out of your bedsit.”

“How did you know about Afghanistan?” John asked, turning his body towards the intriguing Omega who’d planted himself in the chair next to him.  He was wrestling mightily with the fact that this interfering git looked like a supermodel and smelled like the heaven John didn’t believe in.

William dropped his eyes to the cane propped next to John against the wall of the coach.  “You have a cane.”

“Lots of people have canes.”

“You don’t favor either leg, though,” William rebutted and gestured to John’s lap.  “I watched you milling around earlier, and you move with an exaggerated limp that tells me your _injury_ is psychosomatic; also, the way you’re sitting now doesn’t favor either hip and you don’t bear the constant grimace of chronic pain sufferers.”

“But . . .Afghanistan?” John asked.

“The psychosomatic nature of your limp tells me you have PTSD,” William answered, then he pulled the sleeve of John’s jacket up by a mere two inches on his right wrist.  The touch of William’s fingers made John’s skin tingle.  “And this tan that goes no higher than where a soldier would wear a watch tells me you’ve been in the sun recently, but not for the sake of the sun.”  Then William tapped John’s forehead at his hairline.  “Finally, this haircut and the way you stand at parade rest when you’re listening to the tour conductor gives me my final proofs.”

“Extraordinary,” John breathed softly.

“And who are you, hey?”

Both men looked up to find the tour conductor staring curiously at William.  John’s back immediately rose; this was a single Alpha, and he was paying too much attention to this particular Omega.

“He’s with me,” John answered with no hesitation.

“He wasn’t with you when we left London,” the Alpha answered, pulling himself to his full height in a display of territorial dominance.

“Is there a problem?” William asked, and John turned his attention to him to find that he’s transformed from an annoying git to a coquettish flirt.  “I thought I’d join my mate here.  He bought our tickets.  I read your website and it doesn’t say anything about restrictions on where and when an attendee joins.”

The tour conductor blinked, stunned by the sweetness of the Omega sitting next to John.  “Er, no,” he said, trying to shake the enchantment from his eyes.  He was, after all, still working.  “No problem.”  He grinned.  “Enjoy the tour.”

As he made his way back to the front of the bus, John turned again to William.  “Amazing.  How did you do that?”

William shrugged.  “So I suppose from the way you claimed me in front of that poor Alpha you accept the terms of our deal.”

John frowned.  “Why this?  Why don’t you just take a train?”  John scanned William’s fine clothing.  “Or, I don’t know, your driver?”

William huffed through his nose, then whispered: “Rogue Omega.”

John’s jaw dropped.  “No.”

“What?”

“ _You?”_

“Shut up.”

John flicked his eyes towards the front of the coach, but fortunately the conductor was running through his passenger list one last time.  “Alright, so you didn’t take the train or any other mode of transportation because they can trace your name that way.”

William nodded.  “Yes, and these tour companies are very lax with name collections and checking.”

John clenched his jaw and once again turned to look at the Omega sitting next to him.  His eyes were opalescent, mesmerizing, and a bit impatient.  “Right.  Fine.  I’ll help you get to London.”

“And how much money do you want in return?” William asked.  His low voice had turned silky. 

John frowned at the obvious ploy to win his cooperation.  “I’ll name that at a later time.”

William cocked his eyebrow.  “Interesting.”

“Alright, everyone, we’re shoving off again now,” the conductor drawled from the front of the coach.  John and William turned their attention back to the driver like the good little schoolchildren they were pretending to be.  “Welcome to our new passenger, joining his Alpha mate!”  The conductor flicked his eyes up to find both John and William grinning cheekily at him.  He frowned.

William leaned close to him and that damnable _smell_ of him surrounded John.  His mouth watered.  “May I borrow your phone?” William whispered in his ear.

John swallowed thickly then handed it over in stunned disbelief. 

Sherlock sighed.  “A fingerprint lock?  Really?”

John rolled his eyes.  “Fuck’s sake,” he whispered, snatching for his phone.  William refused to release it, and for a few seconds there was a frenzied scrambling between them before John locked his hands around William’s where they clutched the phone.  His fingers slid down William’s until he was able to press his finger to the mobile’s lock.

William stared down at their joined fingers, and John noted the dilated pupils of his eyes.  “Thanks,” he murmured before launching the phone’s internet browser.

John smirked.  “No problem.”  He removed his hands and turned his attention to the window.

In an attempt to keep his hands and eyes off the Omega, John reviewed what he’d learned so far about the man.  He was clearly a genius at observation, but he was probably also at least a little insane.  And he was a Rogue Omega—which meant that, according to the British government, he was on the run from his family and therefore vulnerable, at risk of being claimed by violence by any Alpha who came too close.  No court in the country would convict the Alpha of rape due to the overwhelming urges of their biology, so it was considered the duty of the family and, by extension, the government to find the Omega at all costs and return him or her to their family.

There was, of course, a global movement to turn the responsibility of this whole dire situation towards the Alphas, but it was going nowhere fast.  All told, it was far better for the Omega to not try to escape supervision until they were safely bonded and bred.

John flicked a glance at William.  That seemed so unfair to him, all of a sudden.  This bright, beautiful creature had been told all his life he had to exist under cover.  It was implied that he was as delicate and fragile as a glass flower.  But that was clearly ludicrous; waves of competence and strength emanated from his scent, and that was what made it so enticing to John.

Maybe they did make male Omegas in his type, after all.  He wouldn’t mind a chance to—

He shook his head just as William shot him another annoyed glance.  _Right, Watson, get that under control_ , he told himself.  _You have a job to do, so do it._

Even so, he had questions, and when they had a moment, he’d get his answers.

  

* * *

 

 

Sherlock gazed down at John Watson’s phone.  The smell of the Alpha was proving to be far more distracting than he was counting on, and he noted that his fingers trembled minutely where they pressed against the mobile’s screen.

He only wanted to check the news, an innocent enough activity to not gain too much notice, but he found himself instead fascinated by John’s browser history: articles for ex-military men suffering from ennui, a couple of medical articles ( _What was that about?_ He wondered), and his e-mail.  Sherlock glanced at John again, fixing his face into an expression of annoyance, but John was turned away, gazing out the window.  Sherlock thumbed through his e-mail— _not_ a privacy violation, since John was in essence his employee now—and found some hostile correspondence with someone named “Harry” who threatened John that he would tell “Mum” if he didn’t come by to visit soon.

So a brother with whom John did not get along.  Good to know.

Sherlock finally returned to the task at hand.  To his eternal relief, the news of his disappearance had not yet been broadcast to the media.  He wondered how long Mycroft would wait before reporting Sherlock to the Rogue Omega registries.

He finally sighed and returned John’s phone to him.

“Hope it helped,” John murmured as he tucked it away again.

“It didn’t,” Sherlock scowled, then slumped into his seat and settled into a sulk.  Mycroft was taking his time, and that wasn’t normal.  Sherlock didn’t like it when people balked their usual patterns.  It meant he was missing something, and he hated that.  _There’s always something._

Besides, this Alpha was turning out to be just a little too attractive.  He could become distracting, and distractions could prove disastrous.

Sherlock closed his eyes and tried to escape to his Mind Palace, but found that a new room had appeared there, just inside the entrance—currently no larger than a broom closet and containing little more than a fantastic scent, a cane, and a dangling pair of glittering dog tags.  Sherlock stared into the room for a full five minutes, dread filling his belly and delight filling his heart.

All in all, this was becoming far more troublesome than he’d counted on.


	2. The Devil Is In the Details

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m . . .well-connected,” Sherlock said. The conversation had become a land-mine strewn mess. He couldn’t tell John half of the interesting bits of his life, bits that this Alpha might find interesting, because those bits would give away his identity.
> 
> John let out a humorless huff: “Ha.” He shook his head. “You’d have to be, to get NSY to give you unrestricted access to crime scenes. I can’t get within a rugby pitch of a homicide without being barked at.”
> 
> “Hang around homicides often?” Sherlock asked in a smarmy approximation of a come-on.

I should tell you right now, before we go any further in this story, that while Sherlock Holmes was indeed a genius, and all things being equal absolutely _should_ have been able to escape the combined clutches of both Mycroft Holmes and the British Government (which many argued were one and the same), Sherlock Holmes _before_ John Watson had the absolute worst luck, and when that was coupled with his occasional deductive oversights (or premature presumptions, however you want to see it) he found himself frustratingly incapable of staying under the radar.  He did _so_ love to show off, after all.

So when he reviewed those news bulletins on John’s phone, he completely missed that the phone had no signal, and the news feed he was reviewing was _cached_ , and therefore several hours old.  Indeed, the bulletin about a Rogue Omega had gone out and was tripping alarms even at that moment.  Sherlock’s face, distinctive even at the best of times, was now going to be the most searched-for face in England.

 

* * *

 

 

“What happened to your date?” Sherlock asked as the coach lurched onto the M20.  The tour conductor had passed out in-ear audio devices and allowed Sean Connery’s voice to do his job for him as he chatted companionably with the driver.

“Excuse me?” John asked.  He gazed at Sherlock evenly, a forbidding look on his face that clearly said _I’m sure even you’re aware that topic is none of your business, so let’s just pretend that’s_ not _what you asked and you can try again to start a conversation, maybe about the weather?_

Sherlock was disrespectful of non-verbal cues.  Always.  “I don’t like to repeat myself.  I’m fairly sure that your ears are perfectly functional.”

John blinked at him a few times, then seemed to come to an internal decision and shrugged using nothing more than his eyebrows.  Sherlock found it oddly delightful.  “I thought she’d be interested in seeing Sussex this weekend with me.  Turns out she was more interested in going off to Cardiff with an ex-boyfriend.”

“You bought the tickets.”

“Yes.”

“On a soldier’s pension—”

“Oi, officer’s pension.”

“Really?” Sherlock narrowed his gaze at him, then smiled and nodded.  “Ah, yes.  Army _doctor_.  That explains—”

“Explains what?” John asked mildly.

“Nothing.  Never mind.”  He turned away a little and tried to be discreet as he scanned the other passengers in the coach:  a childless American couple, a Japanese family furiously Instagramming everything around them, a small group of retirees from Bristol (tiresome), and a nearly silent older gay male couple from Italy, gazing on nearly everything they saw with either contempt or disgust.  He sensed that John was settling in to staring pointedly out the window when he couldn’t help himself asking, “Were you a _good_ army doctor?”

“Very good,” John responded nearly immediately.

Sherlock’s smile escaped him and he returned his attention to John Watson’s face.  His jaw was fixed and his eyes were intense.  _Proud of the work he did._   “Seen a lot of violent deaths, then.”

“Hmm, yes,” John murmured.  “Enough for a lifetime.  Far too many, actually.”

Sherlock’s smile bent into a smirk.  “Want to see some more?”

John’s purest reaction sent Sherlock’s pulse racing.  He grinned, and his eyes sparkled.  It only lasted a second before he tamped down on his excitement and covered it protectively with cynicism.  “Who are you?  What do you do?”

“William Scott,” Sherlock repeated, then held his hand out for a handshake.  “I consult with New Scotland Yard on homicides.”

“So you’re, what, a private detective?”

“ _Consulting_ detective,” Sherlock amended.  PIs were the bane of his existence: prying, condescending Alphas, almost without exception, grasping for some dignity in an investigate-for-hire slut show.

“What’s the difference?”

Sherlock snarled.  “ _They_ come to _me._ ”

John snorted.  “The police don’t consult _amateurs_.”

Sherlock grimaced, and before he could think through his reaction, he hissed, “Oh, I see.  I’m an omega, so I can’t possibly be any good at what I do, is that what you’re implying?”

John frowned in confusion at him, as though Sherlock had admitted that he sometimes made cameo appearances in musicals.  “Er, no.”

“Good.”  Sherlock turned away.  This conversation was not at all going how he wanted.  How had he wanted it to go, again?   Oh, right: he thought he’d ask about the down-on-his-luck Alpha’s missing date, and the man would give him enough information to use as leverage against him later.  Damn.  No, not going how he wanted at all.

“I mean,” John said softly into the pregnant silence around them, “you’re clearly brilliant, and someone who can observe people around them and the smallest of details about them is surely useful to a police investigation.”

Sherlock was staring at the side of John’s head.  His insides were dancing in a way that he’d never felt before.  He thought he might be dizzy.  He thought he might vomit. 

He was only now starting to worry about how vulnerable he was, here, in the presence of this remarkably plain and yet wholly unbelievable Alpha.

“But?” Sherlock asked, presuming the question.

John gave him a one-shouldered shrug.  “Never heard of consulting detectives before.”

Sherlock nodded once, fiercely.  “That’s because I’m the only one in the world.  I invented the job.”  He wanted to slap his hand over his mouth.  Nobody said that!  Nobody claimed to _invent_ a job, and Omegas surely should never say it.  It undermined his credibility grievously.

John cocked an eyebrow at him and ran his eyes over the other passengers as Sherlock had done just a few minutes prior.  “Right then.  Is that what you’re trying so hard to get to, in London?  Why you’ve gone Rogue, I mean?”  His question was a soft but firm whisper that seemed to reverberate in Sherlock’s head.

Sherlock’s mouth went dry as he realized his mistake.  He had all but led John by the nose into this topic, and now the Alpha was looking at him directly with those flinty-blue eyes, burning away all impulses to lie (and that was quite impressive in itself, because Sherlock could lie at a world-championship level, and he loved to do it as a gauge to determine the intelligence of the people around him, and mankind was determined to fail him so regularly he was starting to lose interest in the game of it).

But he couldn’t just _tell_ John why he had to get to London, could he?  There was no good end to either of the truths he had available to tell.  If he told John that yes, he was trying to get back to London to resume his consulting work with the Yard, but with the legitimizing step of being wedded to a Beta—and not just a Beta, but a doctor, a mortician who saw and could help him with his investigations—well, John might ask a few more questions, and it wouldn’t be long before he’d arrive at Sherlock’s true identity, and the fact that he’d lied about that at the very beginning.

But he couldn’t just tell him all that, could he?  Could he trust this Alpha with that knowledge?  That was why he’d lied in the first place, because he didn’t know if he could trust this man.

He shook his head.  Of _course_ he couldn’t trust him.  He was an Alpha.  Alphas couldn’t be trusted, not when all they saw in an Omega was a sexual plaything and a breeding ground.

Sherlock sniffed.  “You don’t believe me.”  He hated having to revert to some petulant Omega stereotype, but if it derailed the current conversation he’d do it.

“I _could_ believe you,” John said softly.  “You’re definitely smart enough to do what you claim to do.  But how could you have managed to get started with this?”

“Because I’m an Omega,” Sherlock prompted.

John nodded.  The firm set of his jaw advised Sherlock that he didn’t think much of the reason, but in their fucked-up world it was a daunting reason nevertheless.

“I’m . . .well-connected,” Sherlock said.  The conversation had become a land-mine strewn mess.  He couldn’t tell John half of the interesting bits of his life, bits that this Alpha might find interesting, because those bits would give away his identity.

John let out a humorless huff: “Ha.”  He shook his head.  “You’d have to be, to get NSY to give you unrestricted access to crime scenes.  I can’t get within a rugby pitch of a homicide without being barked at.”

“Hang around homicides often?” Sherlock asked in a smarmy approximation of a come-on.

John gave him a smirk.  “Okay, I understand.  You want to ask questions of me, but you don’t want any questions asked of you in return.  Fine.  I can do that.”

Sherlock was right on the very edge of smirking at this.  He’d won!  Again!  He was just as much a genius as his insufferable brother was, Alpha or no.  But he saw that John was flicking his head in a discouraging gesture of negation and his face fell.  “What?”

“I haven’t named my price yet.”

“No, you haven’t, have you?” Sherlock said softly.  _Ware this one_ , he thought to himself.  _He’s a wily one._

John gave him that quick, assertive head movement again, this time as a nod.  “Right.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows drew together.  “That’s good enough for you?”

John leaned close to him as the coach drew to a stop outside of a kitschy tourist gift shop.  “You strike me as the kind of man who can make things happen,” he murmured in Sherlock’s ear.  Goose flesh erupted down Sherlock’s neck, and he bit back a gasp.  “So yes, we’ll play by your rules.  I’ll watch your back and help you get to London.  In return, you’ll have to trust me.”  John leaned back a little and caught Sherlock’s gaze with his own direct one.  “You’ll have to do as I tell you to, just as any Omega would for his Alpha.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to object, because _oh_ , the nerve of the man.  He was no one’s Omega _pet_ , he wouldn’t just come when called, he wouldn’t—

“I’m not telling you that you have to enjoy it,” John said with a silencing motion.  “But this was your ruse and we have to play it right, so that means you have to obey me.  Do you understand?”

Sherlock glared at him.  “ _Obey_ ,” he drawled in disdain.  Oh, how he hated that part of the bonding Oath, made shortly before the Omega was safehoused and the proper breeding congress began.

John nodded.  “Yes.  Which means you have to trust me, that I’m _your_ Alpha and I will do right by you.”

Yet another callback to the bonding Oath, and Sherlock caught it effortlessly.  Just like the Alpha side of the bond; the Omega had to make very specific concessions to the Alpha’s rights in a bond, had to _obey_ , had to submit, but the Alpha only had to promise to “do right” by the Omega.  All of the legislation that Mycroft had drafted to change the phrase to something more specific, something that would carry a more meaningful commitment from the Alpha, had been rejected with sneering derision from his colleagues in government.  An Alpha promising to protect, serve, and defend?  Ridiculous.

But Sherlock thought again about the specific Alpha seated next to him, the one who hadn’t pulled any of the standard pheremonal bids for dominance, trying to make him obey before any deals had been made.  No, John had been honest, forthright, and even a bit chummy.  It had been . . .pleasant, so far, sharing this ride with him, and nothing in his attitude indicated he would betray Sherlock’s confidence any time soon.

“The act drops as soon as you get me to London,” Sherlock said. 

“All the way to the drop point,” John clarified.

Sherlock glared at John, but John’s answering expression was mild and affectless: he was willing to wait all day, all _year_ , for the answer he wanted.  Sherlock surrendered and gave it to him because he was impatient to get started.  “Fine.”

John nodded and smiled, and the smile was genuine and warm and distressingly charming.  Sherlock felt another unsettling tingling sensation in his chest.  “Good.  Very good.”

“Alright, everyone,” the tour conductor called from the front of the coach as it drew to a stop in a designated parking area, “let’s take half an hour here. _Only_ half an hour, mind; we’re a bit behind schedule and we want to make sure everyone has plenty of time to admire Brighton when we arrive.”

Sherlock popped out of his seat as though he’d been spring-loaded and made his way to the front of the coach.

“ _Mate_ ,” John said, and this time he brought his full pheremonal command to bear in his voice.

Sherlock felt every muscle in his body lock up and noticed that a ringing silence had fallen throughout the assembly.  He turned back to John.

“Don’t get ahead of me,” John said affably and smiled at the rest of the tour attendees.  “Newly bonded and already can’t wait to get away from me.”

An older woman from the retiree group gave them a melting smile.  “Oh, young love on honeymoon!” she cooed.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but as they came together again on the outside of the coach he couldn’t help notice, with pride, that John had left his silly cane behind, and was matching Sherlock stride for stride as they entered the gift shop.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Once in the gift shop, John watched “his” Omega as he made a beeline to the electronics kiosk and found a pay-for-use feature phone.  He purchased it as John watched without a word, then started making his way to the back of the store where the lunch counter stood empty and silent in the between-tour lull.

“I just need a moment,” William murmured.  “Just a moment of privacy, please.”

John looked him in the eye, but shrugged.  Protect, escort, but do not interfere.  Yeah, he’d gotten that message loud and clear.  He found to his dismay, however, that his body was starting to like it less and less because it was starting to like William more and more.

Didn’t matter.  He found himself a bit distracted as his mobile set about buzzing in his pocket.  He nodded at William to indicate to him he could take his leave at his leisure, then pulled his phone from his pocket to check on the mayhem.

Ah.  Apparently his mobile signal was freshly restored to him.  He scanned incoming texts: Harry, threatening again that he needed to call her and stop being _such a bloody baby, Johnny, really_ ; his former CO, Major James Sholto, advising that he was going to have to change his phone number soon but he’d be in touch _and goodness, Watson, go get yourself an Omega already and settle down_ ; and his bank, advising he was overdrawn on three of his recent transactions and they may not be able to honor a fourth.

The more interesting thing was a bulletin from the Rogue Omega program:

_New Rogue Omega Report_

_William Sherlock Scott Holmes, 29 years old, unbonded Omega, has gone missing from his family’s estate in Sussex.  Goes by Sherlock Holmes.  This is a Class 1 Rogue Report: Repeat, Class 1 Rogue, voluntary flight, severe risk.  If you come into contact with this Omega, contact the Rogue Omega program director in your immediate township.  Refer to the nearest bailey for more information._

The announcement was followed by several photos of this “Sherlock Holmes,” and John’s face fell when he realized who he had agreed to protect and deliver safely to London.

He dragged his hand down his face.  That explained the unregistered mobile phone, then.  It explained quite a lot, actually, but above all it told John that “his” Omega was lying through his teeth to him.

 _Not a good way to start a relationship_ , he thought wearily to himself.

He turned to survey the rest of the tour group.  Most of them were obliviously rifling through trinkets and baubles, worthless gewgaws that they could shove into their overstuffed bags to cart back home to wherever they were from—except for the gay Italian couple.  Those two men were standing near John.  The shorter of the two, a dark-haired man with deep, dark eyes full of a nearly-insane level of glee, winked at him conspiratorially.

John didn’t like it a bit.

Sherlock returned to him just as they were climbing back on board the coach, and he looked . . . _different_.  His hair was combed differently, falling now in disciplined waves over his forehead, and he was wearing glasses.

John let out a sharp bark of laughter.  “You don’t actually think that will work as a disguise, do you, Sherlock?”

Sherlock actually got a few words into his response before he registered the fact that John called him by a name other than William.  “It’s just the beginning of—wait.”

Without another word John unlocked his mobile and handed it to Sherlock, still prominently displaying the information about his Rogue Omega report.

“Oh, _fantastic_ ,” Sherlock said.”

“We are going to have a discussion, yes we are,” John said tightly as they settled into their seats, “but not here.  Not now.”  He threw an arm around Sherlock’s shoulders and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek.  Color rose into Sherlock’s face, and John noted it, but he was almost too disgusted with anger to take any pleasure from it.

_Almost._

Sherlock only nodded and stared out the window.


	3. We Need to Chat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock’s eyes cut to him again. “John, er. I hope you don’t get the wrong idea from all . . .this.” He waved his hand at the scant space between them. “I’m flattered, but I have someone waiting for me in London.”

Sherlock's sulk was silent for only half an hour.  After that he started twitching with impatience.  This was infuriating.  He was this close, _thisclose_ to a whole new life of independence, freedom from his societal “obligations” and the ability to conduct his work the way he’d dreamed. 

But here he sat, pheremonally compromised by the soldier sitting next to him whom he’d hired to take him to that shining beacon of freedom.  And as much as he was looking forward to this new freedom, his body was having second thoughts about all that traditional nonsense about how _good_ a bond could feel, especially if it was made with the right Alpha.

If this was any other day Sherlock would be out of this seat and anywhere else.  Hell, he should at least have his phone (currently powered off and in the breast pocket of his jacket), his coat (left behind at his family’s estate, and holding his complete supply of cigarettes and nicotine patches), or even his e-reader, stocked full of forensic science books and serial killer biographies.

He was sure he was going to go mad from the overabundance of _boredom_ currently swamping his senses, and the only stimulation he could find was his attraction to this damnable Alpha, and he was trying very hard to ignore that, thank you very much.

He sighed.  He hadn’t slept properly since he’d signed the Intent to Marry document with Molly at the bailey in Eastbourne.  He had originally been relieved that she’d insisted on returning to London so quickly; despite his taunting of Mycroft at breakfast the previous morning, he hadn’t really been looking forward to the physical intimacy required to complete a Beta marriage, and he’d thought he would use the time it would take him to get to London from Eastbourne to mentally prepare himself for what he was certain would be a great deal of unpleasantness.

He had been sure it would be completely worth it, if it freed him to live his life however he wanted.  His lack of sleep and the reaction he was having to John Watson made him wonder if he was perhaps being hasty.

He closed his eyes for a moment, thinking he should check in to his Mind Palace and re-center himself, psychologically prepare himself for the life he intended to live, and damn all the doubts.

As he entered he became aware of the fact that his Mind Palace seemed . . .different, somehow.  The light coming in through the windows was no longer the cold luster of moonlight but instead the warm, fractured richness of stained glass.  He looked up to the walls around him and noted that they had, indeed, changed; gone were the deep, thin slits in his defensive castle gates, replaced now with the reckless abandon of riotous stained glass.  The scenes were a bit abstract right now, but he recognized clearly the face gazing back at him from the nearest window: John Watson, his steel gaze unwavering, a small smile playing at the edges of his mouth.

His heart thumped hard in his chest and for a moment he lost track of his breathing.  This was _not good_.  He could not deal with any more complications right now. 

Even so . . .surely it wouldn’t hurt anything to indulge in this, just for a minute.  He so rarely spoiled himself if it wasn’t fine, tailored clothing or his furtive drug habit that helped him escape the humiliating limitations of his biology.

He closed the door to this strange shrine behind him and allowed himself to again breathe.  He took great lungfuls of that scent into his body and let it run riot through his bloodstream.  He’d been afraid he’d feel that hungry, greedy well at the core of himself open up, but it wasn’t that simple; what he experienced instead was a sense of rightness, of completion, of _finally, finally._   He let his fancy carry him away for a moment, imagining that he was in John’s arms, safe, protected . . .loved.

He fell into an unfamiliar chair of warm red brocade, one that felt like it closed around him, molded to him, and allowed himself to drift in this sweet illusion of surrender.

 

* * *

 

 

John looked down at his shoulder and found Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective and Rogue Omega, fast asleep against him.

This should be annoying.  Heaven knows he’d had to endure almost too much sighing, fidgeting, and tension since they’d left the last rest stop, not to mention all the resentful glances.  But this—an Omega with a delightful scent curled up snug against him, his temple pressed against John’s good shoulder, his nose mere inches from John’s scent gland—this was sweet in a way John hadn’t realized he craved.  It spoke to him of belonging, of a home he’d found elusive since he’d left for university, and of one person he could relax and be himself with.

He clamped his eyes shut in an attempt to keep himself from feeling these things.  Biology was a brutish dictator, after all.  Even so, he let his arm drift down again over Sherlock’s shoulder, and he pressed his nose into that soft, dark brown hair and inhaled the scent of him even as he moved his neck closer to the Omega’s nose.

“Isn’t that sweet?”

The whisper over his shoulder was harsh.  He turned his face away from Sherlock and shot a hateful glance at the interloper.  His body was suddenly hyper-vigilant, warnings sounding through his system: _Rival Alpha, threat, protect the Omega, defend your claim._

The dark-eyed man from the tourist shop, the one _William_ had told him was Italian due to his precise sense of fashion, was smirking at him.  “I bet you can’t _wait_ to knot him, eh?”

John pressed his lips together and assessed this threat.  He shook his head.  “You can’t be that tone-deaf.”

The man gave him a wolfish smile.  “Oh, I know the question was rude, but _your_ Omega is passed out cold and it’s just us Alphas.”  The accent was not Italian.  If John wasn’t mistaken, it was a faded Irish accent.

John shot a look to the front of the coach.  Again the tour conductor was ignoring his clients in favor of the driver, who was listening to him tell a story about a monster in Ullswater or something.  He frowned.  He’d have to nip this in the bud himself, apparently.

“So, you’ve gone the traditional route, that’s nice,” the stranger said, bending closer to John and, therefore, to Sherlock.  “Intent to Bond documentation I suppose, some mild scenting, but none of the funny business that can prompt a heat until you get him home and safehoused, eh?”

“And how is this any of your business?” John asked.

“Just passing the time, you know.”  He motioned to the rest of the coach where people were staring out the windows and listening to Sean Connery tell them about the countryside around them.  “Bored.”

“Shame,” John said, then turned away from him to again press his nose into Sherlock’s hair, hoping the rude bastard got the hint.

No such luck.  “I can help you.”

“Hm?” John asked.  He didn’t think he needed anyone’s help; he’d accepted Sherlock’s job offer and surely getting one Rogue into London couldn’t be that difficult, could it?  But he could at least hear what this weirdo had to say.

“For a price.”

“Don’t need your help,” John hissed.  A _price_?  There was nothing generous about this guy, nothing helpful.  He was a spider in an expensive suit.

“I think you do,” he said in a strange sing-song.  “Chat later, _soldier_.”  He moved back into his seat just as Sherlock started to stir.

John was still annoyed when he looked down at the sleepy face propped on his shoulder, but that annoyance evaporated quickly.  Sherlock’s eyelashes fluttered and his lips pressed together in a petulant moue that stirred something precious and tender in John’s heart.

Sherlock’s prismatic eyes opened slowly and he appeared to be taking in his surroundings, then he froze and pulled away, out of John’s embrace.  “Er, thank you,” he murmured, his voice sleep-roughened and a little deeper than usual.  John’s skin prickled.

“You’re welcome,” he said.

Sherlock blinked hard and stretched, stifling a yawn.  “Where are we?”

“Just outside Worthing, headed down to Bognor Regis.”

Sherlock rubbed his eyes.  “Ugh. This is taking an _eternity_.”

“What’s your rush?” John asked, feeling a little hurt and resentful.  Here he was, perhaps taking this job a little _too_ seriously, desperately trying to hide his furtive scenting and his growing attachment, and this wanker couldn’t wait to get off the coach and run off to whatever was waiting for him in London.

Sherlock’s eyes cut to him again.  “John, er.  I hope you don’t get the wrong idea from all . . .this.”  He waved his hand at the scant space between them.  “I’m flattered, but I have someone waiting for me in London.”

“Oh?” John asked, hoping he didn’t sound or look as crushed as he felt.  He’d just started to hope, really, but he’d suspected from the beginning that this would be the case.

Sherlock nodded once.  “Yes.  A doctor, like you.  She’s going to help me with my work.”

 _She_.  Bitterness rose in John’s chest.  “She must be quite something,” he offered.

“She’s . . .perfectly adequate,” Sherlock said, and the precision of the answer sat wrong with John. 

“Adequate?”

Sherlock shrugged.  “She gives me the freedom I need to do my job.  Nothing is more important to me than the work, and a traditional pair-bond would slow me down.”

“Oh!  Right.  Of course, right.”  John was getting it now.  This wasn’t personal; even the person waiting for Sherlock was a means to an end, nothing more.

Even so, that seemed incredibly cold, too cold for this lovely warm creature seated next to him.  The dichotomy confused John and he frowned.

“Er, John,” Sherlock said softly, breaking him out of the spiraling dissonance in his head, “will you be able to, er, name your price soon?”

John nodded absently after he scanned the coach; sure enough, the strange Irish guy seated next to his burly blond friend was talking into his phone in an understated yet menacing fashion.  “Yes, soon.”

“Good.”

“After we’ve had our talk.”

“You haven’t forgotten about that, then?”

“Nope.”

“Ah.”

“We’re spending the night in Southampton before the return trip to London,” John said softly.  “We’ll chat then.”

“Why not now?”

John reminded himself that while Mr. Irish Ponce was otherwise occupied on the phone, his big friend had met John’s eyes with a silent challenge.  “The coach is listening,” he said, his eyes locked on Sherlock, willing him to understand the subtext.

He caught that effortlessly, judging by the way his expression sobered.  “Yes.  We need to chat.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're getting to the good stuff! Get ready for a night in Southampton.


	4. The Walls of Jericho

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The duvet draped cooperatively into the space between the bed and John’s improvised nest. “There. The Walls of Jericho.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Some suicidal thoughts on the part of one John Hamish Watson. No worries, he's not going anywhere.

The Blue Keys was a beautiful little bed and breakfast in Southampton which had been completely rented out by the tour company, and John had made his reservation with a wealth of optimism, so their room only had one bed.  Sherlock took one look at that bed and might have had a wee panic attack.

“There’s only one bed.”

John nodded once, tightly.  “Yes.  If you hadn’t been so desperate to abscond with my mobile and spend ten minutes outside doing god-knows-what with it—”

“I was reading the news,” Sherlock said.

“You would have overheard the awkward conversation I’d had with the proprietors about how I’d prefer a second room, even though I can’t afford it.”

“You’ll be able to in a matter of hours,” Sherlock said, still scowling at the single bed. 

“It’s a roomy enough bed.”

“Yes.  Too roomy.  It takes up far too much room in this tiny space.  If they’d thought to put a smaller bed in here they might have been able to fit a sofa in as well.”

“What’s the fun of that?” John asked, trying to inject some mirth into this conversation.

“Fun?  One of us is going to have a hard time finding the humor in this situation while they’re trying to fall asleep on the floor.”

“That’ll be me.”

Sherlock pulled up short.  He wasn’t expecting John to offer this, but he realized suddenly that he should have.  “Now, hold on just a moment, I didn’t mean—”

“It’s logical,” John said.  “I’ve slept in a windstorm in the Afghanistan desert, surely the floor of this little bed and breakfast will feel like heaven after that.”

Sherlock scowled at him skeptically.  “Hm.  So you’re saying it’s because you’re used to it, not because of some misguided attempt to woo me.”

John let out a sharp bark of laughter.  “Ha!  Woo you?  Woo you.  You, completely uninterested in anybody who can’t help you with your work.  Why would I waste my time?”

 _Why indeed_ , Sherlock thought, then felt a cold fear creep up his spine.  _Why wouldn’t you want to woo me?  Are you as completely disinterested in me as you think I am in you?_

He should be pleased by this; after all, it rather implied that he’d been successful in hiding the burgeoning . . . _sentiment_ that this aggravating Alpha was creating in him.  He wasn’t pleased, however, and he was doubly irritated that he wasn’t.

“Because you’re a single Alpha.”

“Hm, yes, about that.”  John sat down on the small chair at the small desk in the corner of the room and motioned to Sherlock that he should have a seat on the bed.  “Let’s have our chat.”

Sherlock nodded and took a seat.

“So.  You have someone waiting for you in London.”

“Yes.”

“A woman.”

“Yes.”

“An . . .Alpha?”

“No.”

“Ah.”

“Molly Hooper is a Beta doctor.  We met at the morgue at St. Bart’s.”

“Really?  I studied medicine there, myself.”

Sherlock gave him a polite smile.  “So you know the place.”

“I do.  Probably especially the morgue.  We would, er, dissect cadavers there.”

Sherlock’s eyes sparkled.  “Did you enjoy it?”

John frowned.  “Odd question, that.”  He shrugged.  “Not at first.  Our instructors tried to dehumanize the corpses, you know, put bags over their heads so we couldn’t see their faces and whatnot, but there was no way for me to disassociate.”

“And you dissected them anyway.”

“Of course.  Part of the curriculum.”

“And you wanted to be a doctor.”

John nodded, then gave Sherlock a very stern face.  “Now stop trying to take over this conversation.”

Sherlock smiled.  He couldn’t help himself.  It wasn’t just that John recognized what he was doing; it was that he called him out on it.  Very few people called Sherlock out on his . . . _liberties_.  He could name them all on one hand.

“So you have an Intent to Marry document with this Dr. Hooper, and your family refuses to recognize it.”

Sherlock arched an eyebrow at John.  “You know it’s more than that.”

“Fine, fine, _society_ refuses to recognize it.”

“Because Molly hasn’t staked her claim on me, as it were.”

“And you want that.”

Sherlock shrugged.  “I want to be free to do my work.  I want to be free to visit the morgue.”

“You want to be free.”

Sherlock looked up into John’s face in surprise.  What he saw there was nearly devastating: _recognition_.  Empathy.

“Why do I get the impression that you understand that?”

John gave him a bitter laugh.  “My sister is a Beta.  She fell in love with another Beta woman, a fantastic librarian named Clara.  When they decided to get married, my family refused to give their blessing.”

Sherlock pressed his lips together.  Surely useful information, but hardly an answer to his question.  “What does that have to do with _your_ freedom?”

John’s flinty gaze shifted away from Sherlock.  “I don’t want to bond, myself.”

Sherlock was shocked.  This Alpha was probably the prize of the century: smart, an officer, humble in dress and manners but proud where it counted, and a non-smarmy Alpha, the kind that Omegas used to refer to as Knights due to their courtly, deferential natures. 

“And because I don’t want to bond, my family realized I wouldn’t be perpetuating the great Watson line, so it fell to my sister to do it.”

“What about your brother?”

John frowned.  “My what?”

“Your brother, Harry.  I’ve seen his texts on your phone, I just assumed—”

John let out a high-pitched giggle, and Sherlock immediately suspected he was being mocked.  “What?”

John shook his head.  “Harry is short for Harriet.”

“Harry’s your sister,” Sherlock said, his lips pulling away from his teeth.  “ _Sister_.  I always miss something.”

John shook his head.  “You didn’t miss anything, you just made one assumption too many.”  He waggled his finger at Sherlock.  “Naughty, though, snooping through my texts.”

Sherlock shrugged.  “Irrelevant.  You’re my employee now.  It’s my right.”

“And about my wages.”

Sherlock rubbed his hands together.  Now they were getting to the good stuff.  “Yes, about that.”

“So I’m escorting an unwed and unbonded Rogue Omega to London.  The Rogue Omega report has already been published, and if I’ve seen it I’m sure many, many others have.  Add to that your family’s resources which, judging by your clothing and your posh mannerisms, is daunting, and I have quite a job set out for me.”

“You’re a soldier.  You can smuggle one Omega across enemy lines to safety.”

“Yes, but it will be a challenge.”

“I’ll make it worth your while.”

Sherlock hadn’t intended for that last statement to sound like a saucy invitation, so he frowned at himself.  John simply smirked at him.  “Yes, you will,” he said.

 _And here it comes_ , Sherlock thought wearily.  Now he’d have to submit himself to some lascivious offer on John’s part, and he’d have to find a bargaining chip worth more than an unbred, unbonded, unknotted Omega.  “Name your price,” he said anyway.

“Travel expenses, as well as the right to publish the story on my blog.”

Sherlock blinked.  “What else?”

John shook his head.  “Nothing else.”

“Why don’t you want to bond?” Sherlock asked abruptly.  He hadn’t meant to ask, or if he did, he hadn’t meant to just throw it out there—maybe cloak it in some innuendo or intrigue.  But some urgent part of him was rising from his subconscious and demanding answers, and immediately.

John sighed.  “I did, once.  I thought it would be nice to have an Omega and a brood, the standard old call of it, you know?”  He chuckled, a dry, brittle sound.  “But then I went to Afghanistan, and I spent ten years there.  I saw my brothers die all around me, and I knew that for some of them they were leaving behind their bondmates and their broods.”  He looked up into Sherlock’s face, and Sherlock saw for just a moment the harrowing, haunting pain in John Watson.  “I saw them die, and I saw them weep as they died because they could never hold their bondmates again, they could never see their broods grow up.  It wasn’t an impersonal, distant dream anymore.  It was a nightmare of . . .of pain, so much pain.”  He forced his face into a more neutral expression and shrugged.  “I was more likely to die than a lot of doctors, being with the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers and all.”

“One of the most decorated and celebrated infantry regiments in the Queen’s Army.”

John nodded.  “It didn’t seem . . .right.”

“You’re not in the army anymore, though.”

“Yeah.  And now I can’t afford a mate and a brood.  I can barely afford to keep myself alive.”

Sherlock peered at John.  “You prioritize the mate and brood over yourself.”

John nodded gravely.  “Always.”

“You put their comfort before your own.”

“Yes.”

Sherlock leaned back on the bed and tilted his head to one side, contemplating John’s words, his actions, his very nature.  “You’re a rare Alpha, John.”

 

* * *

 

 

John watched Sherlock as he tilted his head to one side, unconsciously offering his scent gland.  John wondered if Sherlock recognized the significance of his action, especially when coupled with his flattery.

John again tried to wrestle his Alpha nature under control.  It didn’t matter, not any of it.  Any flirtation they shared right now could—and would—be chalked up to the pheremonal exchange that had been in progress since the moment they met, and the more time they spent together the more their bodies accepted this imprint.  It would sting like the Dickens when John had to abandon it, but he would.  He would have to.

“So you’re a writer, then?” Sherlock asked.

“Hm?”

“The blog.”

“Oh, that, right.”  John nodded.  “I was advised to start a blog.”

“By your therapist.”

“How could you possibly know I have a therapist?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and pointed at the cane propped against the door.  “You have a psychosomatic limp, of course you have a therapist.”

“Manners, my god, do you posh bastards know nothing about manners?” John sighed.  “Yeah, my therapist.  She thought it would be a good idea.”

“I don’t understand.  You’re not a journalist and it sounds like you haven’t done much with your blog.  Why would you think this would be sufficient?”

“A few things, Sherlock,” John said, shifting his position in the chair.  It was a dreadfully uncomfortable thing, but it was getting the job done for now.  “One, I wanted to make the offer impossible for you to refuse.  Two, if I have your exclusive story my blog will suddenly become the most read blog in the Commonwealth.  And three, which is based on two, once it does that I can start making money off it.  That along with my pension should set me up nicely for a while.”

“Until when?”

John drew up short.  “What?”

“Should set you up nicely for a _while_.  You seem to have some kind of plan for after that.  What’s your plan?”

John closed his eyes.  He couldn’t very well say _Until I get together enough courage to end this farce with a point-blank shot to the temple._ Sherlock may not be interested in him as a person—may, in fact, be interested in little more than using John as some form of vehicle—but saying something like that was just not on.  “Don’t know yet.  Let’s see what the world offers.”

He finally returned his full attention to Sherlock’s face, which was twisted into an agonized grimace so acute it gave John an immediate, swooping sense of dread.  “What?  What’s wrong?” he asked as he came to his feet.

“John Watson,” Sherlock whispered darkly.  “You will not kill yourself.  Do you understand me?  I won’t allow it.”

John blanched.  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Sherlock waved it away.  “You do, and you know I’m right, and you know enough about my methods to apply them here.  It doesn’t matter.  I will gladly meet your requested price: exclusive rights to my story as a Rogue Omega, and your travel expenses, _and_ I will tell Molly to find you a position at Bart’s when we return.”  He grinned.  “I have to keep an eye on you, I see that now.”

John felt a little dizzy.  Perhaps he was tired.  Perhaps letting somebody in on his darkest secret, even if he’d never said anything directly about it, was too much for the day.  Whatever it was he felt the sudden and overwhelming need to get some rest. 

But first things first.  “We have to divide the room.”

“We have to what?” Sherlock asked, as appalled as if John had just said they had to catch a goat and sacrifice it to Ba’al before they could sleep.

John rose and went directly to the room’s closet, which he opened.  He rooted around on the top shelf until he was able to find a large, well-flocked wool duvet.  “Here, this should do nicely.”

“Do what?”

“My dear Sherlock, we’re both adults.  I’m sure you know what happens when an Alpha and an Omega share a room together.”

Sherlock blinked three times in rapid succession.  “Let’s pretend I don’t.”

John dropped the duvet.  “Oh my god, you don’t know.”

“I deleted it.”

“Deleted?”

“Look, my brain is my hard drive.  I don’t want to clog it up with a bunch of applications I won’t use.  Alpha/Omega bonding was such an application.”

“There are so many disturbing concepts wrapped up in that statement I don’t even know where to begin.”

“Then don’t.  Let’s just humor the sociopath by telling him about what happens between Alphas and Omegas when they share a room.”

“Sociopath?”

“Oh, for god’s sake!” Sherlock growled.  “Talking to you is like talking to an especially dense parrot.  Stop repeating everything I say and just tell me already!”

“Sociopath, yeah, seeing it now,” John growled.  “Fine.  If I spend the night in a room with you and I can maintain a direct line of sight to you, I will take your sleeping form as an invitation to share your bed.  It’s biological, instinctive.  There’s nothing I can do to stop it once I fall asleep.  If I fall asleep and wake up in your bed with you, I may be helpless to molesting you.”

“Oh, wonderful, _wonderful_ ,” Sherlock hissed.  “Another argument about the way Alphas are helpless to their biology.  You’d think you weren’t the strong, dominant providers and raiders with that philosophy hanging over your heads.”  He came to his feet as well and moved to within a foot of John.  “So which is it?  Are you the strongest and bravest among us, or are you helpless to your biology?”

“Let’s make it neither, shall we?” John said.  “I’m tired, Sherlock, and I’d like to get some sleep free of molestations on either side—”

“I can easily resist molesting you,” Sherlock said with a snooty tip of his nose.

“You’d be surprised,” John muttered wearily, thinking about his sister’s friend, Victoria Browning, an Omega.  She’d been invited to a sleepover and had _somehow_ wandered into John’s room and John’s bed.  It had been Harry’s discovery of her there, with John still fully asleep but covered in young, fragrant Omega, that had prevented any further tests.

“Why, because you’re such an accomplished lover?”

John shook his head.  “Why are you trying to pick a fight with me?”

Sherlock pulled up short.  “I don’t know.”

John sighed.  “ _Anyway_ ,” he said, pulling several blankets and pillows from the bed and building himself a nest on the floor, “the most important thing to maintain is a broken line of sight.”  He looked around the room to see where he could hang the duvet.  There were no good options; it was a very small room.  He huffed and pulled open his overnight bag, stuffed with a few clothes and several other kits, including, he was relieved to find, his tool kit.  He pulled out a stapler and yanked the chair over to him, then grabbed the duvet and climbed on the chair.

“John, what on Earth . . .” Sherlock started, but John’s intention became apparent when he started stapling the duvet to the ceiling.

“It’s the easiest thing,” John said.  The duvet draped cooperatively into the space between the bed and John’s improvised nest.  “There.  The Walls of Jericho.”

Sherlock smirked.  “Ancient biblical story.”

“Yup.”  John sank to his knees and started pulling off his shoes and socks.

“Your walls seem rather flimsy.”

“They’ll accomplish the objective.”

Sherlock hummed meditatively, but did not object.

Several minutes passed.  John shuffled around on his nest, trying to find a comfortable position.  Sherlock was silent as a cat.

“Well, then, good night,” John finally murmured into the silence.

“John?”

“Yes?”

“You . . .you _will_ allow me to try to find you some work?  A way for you to feel useful?”

John pressed his eyes closed.  A part of him objected to that part of the plan; what difference did it make if he felt useful?  His life would still be empty and sad, a dirge to lost dreams, and just a long procession to the day he could no longer resist the eventual fate of every human on Earth, be they Alpha, Omega, or Beta.

Then again—if being useful meant he could be useful to _Sherlock_ , in whatever capacity he found for him, would that be such an awful thing?  If he could point his gun at Sherlock’s enemies and help him with his investigations and bear witness to his dazzling displays of deduction—goodness, that almost sounded worth any amount of pain.

And it was then, in the darkness of the Blue Keys, listening to Sherlock breathe as he waited for John’s answer, that John realized he may not be able to escape the gulf of pain and heartache that would be waiting for him at the end of this job.

“Yes, I think I might,” he whispered in response to Sherlock’s question, and he knew it meant that he would be willing to endure that grief and more, if he could be near this exceptional man.

“Good.  Yes.  That’s, er, good.” 

“Good night, Sherlock.”

“Good night, John.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, the Blue Keys is a real inn/bed and breakfast style spot. The name was so close to the Cross Keys I couldn't resist. :)


	5. Maybe West Wind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We don’t have a car.”   
> “We’ll hitch a ride.”   
> “We’ll do what?”   
> “Don’t tell me you’ve never hitched a ride.”   
> Sherlock looked at him like he’d grown a second head.

Sherlock dreamed.   

He fell into the dream gratefully, immediately immured in the context:  He and John were sitting next to each other on a park bench, hands clasped together as they watched two children play on a nearby playground.  He knew those children as well as he knew himself; after all, they were his. 

Sherlock felt tears prick his eyes.  He didn’t want to want this.  He’d spent his entire life fighting these warm, instinctual feelings, but as he gazed upon these children—a blond older boy and his bright-eyed, dark-haired little sister—he felt something vast crack open in his chest and spill into his veins. 

 _“Love, are you alright?”_  

He looked down at where his hand was wrapped around John’s, possessively, confidently.  He looked up into John’s eyes, filled with love and concern for the tears that spilled down his cheeks. 

 _“I don’t want to want this,”_ Sherlock confessed. 

John gave him a sad smile.  _“I didn’t, either.  But I do.  I want this.”_ He raised their joined hands to his lips.  _“I want you.”_  

The words were forming on his tongue: _I’m yours_.  He woke before he could utter them. 

 

Sherlock came to, still fully dressed in his jacket and trousers in the double bed of a room in a small inn named the Blue Keys.  He felt a vague sense of loss, then creeping dread as he looked down his arm at his hand.  It was just on his side of the silly duvet wall John had stapled to the ceiling. 

And in Sherlock’s hand, John’s own smaller hand was loosely but determinedly held. 

This couldn’t possibly be a good thing.  No matter the warmth and sweetness of his dream, this was an indulgence that had to end immediately. 

But oh, the act of removing his hand from John’s could barely be managed without an excruciating amount of pain.  A part of him advised that he’d rather remove his arm than remove his hand from John’s. 

 _This is ridiculous_ , Sherlock thought to himself as he stared.  Dammit, he couldn’t help it; he _loved_ the sight of their hands joined like this.  He loved the sense of belonging and safety and _home_.  He loved the idea that he was accepted, just as he was, by this remarkable Knight. 

He finally found the fortitude to slide his hand free, and a small grunt of irritation answered him from the other side of the wall.  Sherlock rolled away and curled around his hand, which smelled of _Alpha_ and _Knight_ and _John_ and _home_.  It smelled perfect, and he cupped his hand over his nose and mouth so he could breathe it and thereby soothe himself from the overwhelming pain of being physically removed from _his_ Alpha. 

 _His Alpha._  

 _Oh no,_ Sherlock thought to himself, even as his heart and body rejoiced at this epiphany.  This was definitely _not good_. 

He wasn’t supposed to have an Alpha.  He was Sherlock Holmes, a man who transcended the demands of his transport, the greatest mind of his age.  He was more important than these stupid instinctive roles.  He was going to change the world. 

 _You can still do that_ , the Omega raging through his system said.  _He would be a great help to you._  

He shook his head.  No.  No Alpha was a great help to any Omega if it wasn’t related to bonding and breeding.  He knew this.   

“Sherlock?” John asked, his voice somehow both soft and rough from sleep. 

“Good morning, John,” Sherlock said, then hurried off the bed and into the privacy of their en-suite, in which he proceeded to rub that hand over his face and neck and barely kept himself from whimpering. 

 _Not.  Good._  

 

 

* * *

 

 

John enjoyed breakfast quite a bit.  Not only did the Blue Keys serve a fantastic fry-up, but the sun was warm on the green garden surrounding the patio table at which they sat to enjoy it.  Birds sang.  Sherlock blushed when John sat his food down in front of him, and ate heartily.  John was nearly certain Sherlock didn’t understand the significance of it, that accepting nourishment from an Alpha _meant something_.  Altogether it was a lovely meal. 

Unfortunately, Sherlock was starting to act strangely, and John understood why when Sherlock reached across the table and took his hand. 

He looked up abruptly from his meal to find Sherlock staring at a point over his shoulder.  His eyes were piercing and his mouth was set in a displeased moue.   

“What’s wrong?” John asked under his breath.  He raised his coffee to his lips with his free hand and forced his movements to remain casual, despite the aggressive warning of _Danger_ in Sherlock’s gaze. 

“Something,” Sherlock responded in a soft whisper.  “I can’t pinpoint it yet, but I don’t like it.”  He sighed.  “I suppose I should head upstairs and finish my disguise before we go any further.” 

“No, Sherlock, no,” John said, and just a trace of Alpha command entered his voice, enough to give his words some heft.   

Sherlock froze, then frowned.  “I don’t like it when you do that,” he murmured. 

It was John’s turn to sigh.  “Yeah, I know that.  I don’t like it either, but if we’re in any trouble, I need you to not hare off without me, alright?” 

“John, I will be upstairs in our room.” 

“I also don’t want you changing your appearance any more than you have.” 

Sherlock’s eyebrows rose.  “Oh?  Why not?” 

John bit his tongue for two seconds, cutting off the flow of words that would explain how he quite liked how Sherlock looked, _thankyouverymuch_ , and how for this brief time in this strange place he wanted to preserve the illusion that this remarkable, impossible Omega was his.  He inhaled deeply, then let the correct words out: “Because all of these people already know what you look like.  If you keep changing your appearance you’ll draw more attention to yourself.  You’re already . . .striking.  You don’t need to attract more attention.” 

“Striking?” Sherlock asked as he rose from the table. 

John looked up at the Omega and nearly moaned from what he saw; tall, lithe, lean, with surreal glass eyes and the plush lips of a sexual fantasy, skin like porcelain, and glossy dark hair that was trying desperately to curl despite his attempts to tame it.  John’s mouth went dry when he was hit with a potent dose of Omega pheromones. 

John’s voice was husky when he finally addressed Sherlock’s question.  “You ridiculous peacock, you have to know you’re attractive.” 

A small smirk flickered on Sherlock’s face, barely noticeable, but John caught it and it made his heart skip a beat or two.  “Hm.  Thank you.” 

“You _could_ get packed up, if you need to get away from all this sunlight.” 

“It’s not the sunlight,” Sherlock murmured. 

“No?” 

“No.” 

“What is it then?” 

Sherlock arched his eyebrow at John.  “I’ll leave you to your deductions.”  He sniffed, then added, “I’ll just pack up _your_ things, then, shall I?”  He winked and left. 

John looked down at his left hand and noticed that it was steady.  Odd.  He was sure he’d had a tremor in that hand as recently as three days ago, when he’d first boarded the coach that brought him to Sussex. 

Then again, that had been the hand that smelled so like Sherlock this morning, the hand he’d had to bury in his pyjama pants while Sherlock washed up, then rubbed against his hard cock in the shower after.  His orgasm had left him dizzy, but at least he was _fairly_ certain that he’d stifled Sherlock’s name.  _Fairly._  

And so it came to be that John was staring stupidly at his hand when he was approached from behind. 

“Hello,” the posh Irish arsehole said to him from over his shoulder. 

John turned.  “Oh, hello.” 

“I think we can skip all the nonsense about the weather and the scenery, don’t you?” he asked. 

John just inclined his head: _As you like_.  The man sat next to him, then immediately closed his eyes in bliss.  

“Oh, my, but that does smell lovely,” he said.  He grinned as he opened his eyes again.  “Sherlock Holmes is a ripe Omega, isn’t he?” 

John felt his jaw clench.  This man should not be using that name.  “Excuse me?” 

“You turned down my assistance once.  I think you should reconsider.”  He unlocked his mobile and set it down in front of John.  The Rogue Omega report on Sherlock was glaring at him. 

John scanned the other members of the tour group.  There were only a few dawdlers milling about at the edge of the garden.  “What are you playing at?” he growled. 

“Are things getting complicated for you?” the man asked, his eyes twinkling.  “I can’t say I blame you.  That kind of Omega with that kind of scent—most Alphas would have made a move by now.”  He clucked his tongue against his teeth.  “I suppose you think you’re above all that, don’t you?” 

John was surprised by how even his voice was.  “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about, but I _am_ fairly sure you’re offending me.”  He bristled and released a potent dose of Alpha pheromones.  “Back off.” 

“Oh, no sir.”  The man leaned in closer.  He bared his teeth for a moment, a typical Alpha sign of aggression, but seemed to remember himself and simultaneously schooled his features into a wide grin and held out his hand for a handshake.  “Jim Moriarty.” 

“I don’t give a fuck,” John said, ignoring the extended hand.  “Bugger off.” 

“Oh, you don’t want me to do that, soldier,” Moriarty said.  “Not at all.  Because if I bugger off you’ll find yourself in very deep trouble indeed.” 

“What, with the Rogue Omega agents?” John scoffed.  It was a bluff, but he was relatively certain he’d pulled it off. 

It didn’t seem to matter.  “Ho, no, not that flock of amateurs.”  Moriarty snorted in derision.  “You’re right to not worry about them.  But don’t make the mistake of not worrying about me.” 

John felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise, a throwback to the hackles of his Alpha ancestry.  “Are you threatening me?” 

“Yes,” Moriarty answered.  “I assure you, if we don’t work together to get your precious Omega to London, I’ll work against you.” 

“And what do you want out of this deal?” John asked.   

“I get to keep him once we reach London.  He’s worth a lot to me.” 

“Not a chance.”  John rose a little in his seat, an instinctive territorial reaction to make him appear larger.  “Over my dead body.” 

“You don’t even want to know what he’s worth?  That’s too bad,” Moriarty said, then slid a pair of sunglasses onto his face.  “I have a lot of guns.  I know how to use them.” 

“I only need one gun to kill you.”  John gave him a tight smile, one that should imply _and I have that gun, and I know how to use it as well._  

“Oh, good!” Moriarty purred.  He must have heard the subtext.  “Good!  Very good.  I love a challenge.”  He leaned in close to John, his breath ghosting over John’s face.  “In the spirit of sportsmanship, a word of advice: Run.  Leave the tour group, take your Omega, and run.  Because in half an hour I’m going to send my best gun after you, and I have to warn you he’s absolutely deadly.”  He gestured behind him to the tall, bulky blond man he’d been traveling with, who was giving John a very disagreeable look. 

John turned back to Moriarty who had not dropped the shark-like grin.  “Toodle-oo!” he sang, then turned away. 

By the time Sherlock made it back to the garden John was standing and impatient.  He grabbed his overnight bag. 

“John, what’s wrong?” Sherlock asked, clearly reading the anxiety pouring off of John in waves. 

“We have to go.” 

“The tour doesn’t leave for another half hour.” 

“We’re not staying with the tour.” 

“What?” 

“Sherlock, listen to me,” John said softly, keeping his voice even and low to not attract attention.  “You’re in danger.” 

Sherlock looked around, scanning the people around them.  They all still wore the open, guileless expression of sheep.  “Rogue Omega agents?” he asked, also carefully  modulating his speech to avoid attention. 

“Worse.” 

“Worse?” 

“Come on,” John said, his voice tight as he took Sherlock’s hand in his.  “This way.  Don’t look back.” 

John’s blood was infused with adrenaline and oxygen, and he had a beautiful Omega worth dying for at his side.  He hadn’t felt this alive in _years_. 

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock didn't understand the urgency in John's voice, but resisting it wasn’t an option.  He realized that he trusted John; he wouldn’t be following so blindly if he didn’t. 

Even so, was he following blindly?  No, not really, not so long as he could observe.  And he did: he saw the retiree tour group getting back on board the coach.  He saw the tour conductor sipping coffee and chatting with the owners of the Blue Keys.   

Then he saw the gay Italian couple.  They were staring openly at him, and the dark-haired one made a point of catching his eye and waving flirtatiously at him. 

 _Oh, shit._  

“Not Italian?” he asked as he followed John to the road.   

“Not Italian.” 

Sherlock frowned.  “What do they want with us?” 

“I don’t care.  They’re a threat.  They made that clear.  We’re going to run.” 

“Run?” 

“Who’s the dense parrot now?” John asked, and Sherlock noted to his great relief that John was smiling at him. 

“Shut up,” Sherlock said, appalled by the affection he heard in his voice. 

 

* * *

 

 

They walked together for half an hour, cutting through a large park that included a cemetery.  They didn’t speak to each other.  John didn’t let go of Sherlock’s hand. 

Sherlock watched John out of the corner of his eye until he couldn’t bear it anymore.  “You must have a plan,” he said. 

“M3 to London.” 

“We don’t have a car.” 

“We’ll hitch a ride.” 

“We’ll do _what_?” 

“Don’t tell me you’ve never hitched a ride.” 

Sherlock looked at him like he’d grown a second head. 

“Right, so you haven’t.  God, you’re such a brat.”  John finally let go of Sherlock’s hand (much to Sherlock’s chagrin) and surveyed the road.  It was quiet; after all, it was before noon on a weekday.  Even so, he set his bag down and cocked a thumb at the road. 

“I’m not a brat,” Sherlock objected, then studied John.  “So, is this how one hitches a ride?” 

John nodded once.  “Don’t teach you things like this in your posh public schools?” 

“Why would I ever have to know something like this?” 

“For situations like this, of course.”  John jerked his thumb.  “There’s a fine art to hitching a ride.  It’s all in the attitude.” 

“Oh?”  Sherlock was amused by this.  He studied John’s form—not like that was a problem, because it was such a lovely form—to see if he could pick up on any “attitude” cues. 

“Yes.  You want to stand strong.  You don’t _need_ a ride, right?  You’re not a beggar.” 

“You’re a Knight,” Sherlock suggested. 

John blushed.  It was gorgeous.  “Er.  Well.  I was thinking decorated war veteran.” 

Sherlock felt his temperature soar.  The thought of John in his camos on the battlefield, becoming a _decorated_ war veteran, was almost too much. 

“At any rate,” John continued after he cleared his throat, “you don’t want to give off the impression of desperation, just a casual offer to keep somebody company.” 

“That sounds rather indecent.” 

John sighed.  “Watch and learn, brat.” 

Sherlock smirked, but followed instructions.  A car made its scheduled appearance at the horizon and headed towards them.  John jerked his thumb again.  He nodded at the driver. 

The driver did not stop. 

The breeze was warm when the car passed them by.  John gaped like a stranded fish. 

“Aw, wouldn’t the mean driver stop for you, Mr. Decorated War Hero?” Sherlock asked indulgently.   

“I don’t see you doing any better,” John countered.  He was surly.  Sherlock thought it was cute. 

“You haven’t let me try yet.” 

“Be my guest.” 

Sherlock unbuttoned and removed his jacket, then loosened his shirt to display the long column of his throat.  He turned to face John just as an old pickup truck appeared on the horizon.  He grinned, then cocked his hip.  John could only imagine what that was doing to the unfairly plush arse. 

The driver stopped. 

Sherlock leaned into the driver’s window.  “Hi,” he said, looking flushed and embarrassed.  “I’m so sorry, but we lost our tour group.  I guess I spent too long getting ready and they just left!” 

“No,” the driver said.  He was a bit older than them, perhaps in his early sixties.  Sherlock scented a bonded Alpha.  It reassured him a very little. 

“Yes!” Sherlock insisted.  “And here we are, trying to get back to London before my heat.” 

“That explains how good you smell,” the man said.  He was gruff with the praise.  It sounded like something he would have said to a grandchild, a grudging observation, not a titillating fact.  Even so, Sherlock could tell John was irritated. 

“Oh, ta.”  He tried for the most charming Omega persona he could manage.  “Is there any way I can ask you to give us a ride?” 

“I’m only going as far as Farnborough,” the man said. 

“That’s a good start,” Sherlock answered with a grin.  “I can probably get my brother to meet us there to get us the rest of the way.” 

“You should make that phone call,” the man said.  “You smell . . .close.  You need to be safehoused soon.” 

“Already have!” Sherlock chirped.  John opened the truck passenger door and clambered inside.  Sherlock smirked.  He knew why, of course; small truck, one bench seat, no way was John going to let him sit next to an Alpha stranger, no matter how well intentioned. 

Sherlock climbed in and closed the door behind him.  He should be desperately unsettled by all this—the Rogue Omega label, the unnamed threat from the shady Alpha, the lack of funds or luxuries—but he wasn’t.  Not at all.  If he had to be honest with himself, he was having the time of his life. 

He pulled the feature phone he’d bought at the souvenir shop out of his pocket and powered it on.  He would send one text to Mycroft.  He had to.  He knew Mycroft would immediately trace the number and the location from which he’d sent it, but he would be sure to turn the phone off again. 

John glared at him.  “What are you doing, mate?” he asked in that soft but undeniably Alpha voice. 

“Checking to see if my brother is arranging us a ride,” he answered neutrally. 

“Don’t use up all your texts,” John said, his voice tight. 

The older Alpha chuckled in the driver’s seat.  “Ah, a lover’s spat,” he said indulgently. 

“It’s not a spat,” John said.  “I just don’t want to have to pay through the nose for his habit.” 

“I prefer to text,” Sherlock griped in his cute-Omega persona. 

“Reminds me of my own Omega,” the man said with a grin.  “Marie.”  He pointed at a photo on his dashboard.  “Bonded for forty years.  She has habits of her own, sure; she never met a kitchen gadget she didn’t want.” 

Sherlock rolled his eyes.  Was he really going to be compared to a silly female Omega who cared too much for kitchen gadgets?  Could it be more nauseatingly indicative of the Old-World mindset? 

"Forty years," John said in a musing voice.  Sherlock forgot about his anger and turned his attention to him.  He looked wistful.  "Sounds amazing.  So what do you do about it?  Her habit?" 

The man smiled.  He winked.  "I give her everything she asks for, every single thing." 

Sherlock smirked and finally started his text to Mycroft. 

 _Ar3 u lo5t? U_ _shld_ _hav_ _found m3 all_ _redE_ _5o_ _mayB_ _W3st_ _W|nD_  

He waited for confirmation that the text was delivered before shutting the phone off again and returning it to his pocket.  "All done, mate," he said, pretending to demur. 

John took his hand, startling him.  "Thank you, brat." 

Helplessly, Sherlock smiled.

 

 

Sherlock was busy being enchanted by John's touch.  John was busy wondering how he could spoil Sherlock, woo him, and keep him.  The truck driver was busy being charmed by the smell of their attachment to each other.

So really, it was understandable how they could miss the sleek black Jaguar soaring into view behind them.  Understandable, but almost unforgivable.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags are being updated as we speak to advise of angst (I APPARENTLY CAN'T HELP MYSELF *cackle*) and the addition of two characters.
> 
> Also, many props if you know what on Earth Sherlock is texting to Mycroft. Many, many props. YUGE.


	6. The Knight in Shining Armor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time crystallized around him. John thought it very likely he was going to die now, but the thought wasn’t appealing in the way he might have expected, a way to avoid the shame of suicide by giving up his life in a noble way. Instead, he wanted to get through this, needed to get through this, because his Omega needed a guardian, and if John spent his entire life accomplishing nothing more than keeping that brilliant idiot safe, it would be a life well lived.

Mycroft Holmes was having A Bad Day.

At least it wasn’t A Very Bad Day, not yet, anyway.  He’d had to endure those in his career, absolutely.  For example, he knew _precisely_ what had killed the former Princess Diana, and it hadn’t been a random accident in a Parisian tunnel.  He thought he might have had a minor heart attack that day from his discovery of the truth and the resulting royal breakdown once he’d confided the information in the maternal monarch.

But this whole fiasco, caused by his impetuous and stubborn little brother, could easily go from A Bad Day to A Very Bad day.  All he needed was two texts like he’d just received, but with a decidedly less favorable narrative-in-progress:

_Ar3 u lo5t? U shld hav found m3 all redE 5o mayB W3st W|nD_

_I have your little Rogue in my crosshairs. What do you have for me to call it off? -JM_

This was almost fantastically bad.  He’d known of Moriarty, of course; there were very few things kicking up dust in the Realm that Mycroft did not know about, and what he’d heard about this particularly obnoxious petty criminal with a gang of snipers was that he was trying to find a way onto the larger world stage.  Political crimes paid far more handsomely than private ones.

What was so astoundingly annoying about this situation was that Sherlock had agreed with him: Philosophically, there was no advantage to be found in treating with terrorists, and those who absconded with wayward little brothers were certainly that.  If that text from Moriarty was not a complete misdirection, then he had found Sherlock and was currently pressing his advantage. 

But the other text from Sherlock gave Mycroft a reason to hope.

He sighed.  He had to see to this situation personally, which meant _field work_ , and oh, god how he detested field work.

His PA, a bright Beta with the uncanny ability to not only plan the machinations of his far-reaching influence, but also who was virtually able to _read his mind_ , appeared at his left arm.  “The car is ready, sir.  Where are we headed?”

Mycroft examined Sherlock’s text again, picking up on all the subtle clues his clever little brother had hidden in it.  It practically screamed at him that they would find him somewhere on the M3 headed northeast into London, near Farnborough, where his Aunt Celia and Uncle Cecil had kept their third residence, a simple farmhouse on ten acres.  If Mycroft was lucky, this would be concluded in a matter of hours.

“I’m sure it’s pointless by now, but try to trace this text,” he said softly, handing Anthea his phone.  It was a remarkable sign of the trust he had in her: His phone had enough sensitive information to end the Empire.  “If nothing else it should give us an idea of where he was ten minutes ago.”

“Yes sir.”

“And tell the driver we’re headed to Farnborough.”

“Yes sir.”

 

* * *

 

 

The first gunshot seemed like a freak sensory perception to John, perhaps related to the sketchy diagnosis of PTSD his therapist had given him: it was a phantom of Afghanistan, that jarring sense of disconnect between a fun, cozy conversation between mates to the jarring realization that you were in a war, and were not in any way safe.  Between the first gunshot and the second, John shed the skin of Courting Alpha and became again the Soldier, the Captain.  By the time the second shot was fired he was completely in command of his instincts.

“Down!” He bellowed to both the Omega on his left and the Alpha on his right.  The driver swerved towards the shoulder as his instincts to obey the command of the dominant Alpha took over, and he ducked under the dashboard as the truck lurched to a stop.

John wrapped his arm around Sherlock’s shoulder and forced him under the windshield, since somehow this _infuriating_ Omega was able to shrug the Alpha command, even a little, and peer up through the back window just as a bullet shattered the glass.

“I’m hit!” the driver barked.  His arm caught the door handle and it popped open under the combined weight of all three of them pressing against it as the truck threatened to tip from the wild swerve.  The driver spilled out, and John leapt to his feet behind him.  He had a brief conflict between the doctor in him, who wanted to see to the fallen man ( _soldier)_ beside him, but the scene was not secure and the army captain won the battle.  He pulled his gun from where he’d tucked it into the waist of his jeans and rounded on the approaching threat.

The Jaguar was smooth, black, and deadly, and it was barreling towards him.  Unfortunately, that wasn’t the most horrifying part of this: The other half of the duo Sherlock had identified as Italian was behind the wheel, and he was aiming a 45-caliber semi-automatic handgun at John’s head with an insane grin on his face.

John pivoted to avoid one of three shots fired.  The other two went wild over his head and to his right.

“John!” he heard in Sherlock’s dear voice.

He mustered all of his Alpha command into his next words: “Sherlock, for God’s sake, stay in the truck.”  He did not take his eyes off the blond gunman as he killed the engine and rose from the car, over six feet of well-suited death.  He watched the man grin at him, then remove a second 45-caliber pistol from a shoulder holster under his fitted suit jacket.

Time crystallized around him.  John thought it very likely he was going to die now, but the thought wasn’t appealing in the way he might have expected, a way to avoid the shame of suicide by giving up his life in a noble way.  Instead, he wanted to get through this, _needed_ to get through this, because his Omega needed a guardian, and if John spent his entire life accomplishing nothing more than keeping that brilliant idiot safe, it would be a life well lived.

A determination as cold as ice spread through his system as he raised his gun and took aim: _You will not take him from me._

The gunman advanced on John with his own guns raised. 

 _Please be chatty_ , John thought desperately. Chatty gunmen paid less attention to their objective than their egos.

He should have known better.  The man fired, but not at his face.  His first bullet scored the ground at John’s feet, and instinctively he raised his feet—first one, then the other, in a sort of jig, as he moved backwards. 

He never tore his eyes off the other man’s face, so he was treated to the sight of his wolfish smile.  He nodded, then fired again, and again his shot forced a dancing hop backwards from John.  The man moved towards the truck.

“Oh, no you don’t,” John said aloud.

The single shot he fired was deafening, at least to his perception.  It wasn’t a shot aimed to kill, only disable, and sure enough it forced the gunman to drop his right hand as a scarlet circle appeared on the shoulder of his suit jacket.  He looked at it dumbly for a moment, then shrugged, released the gun from the grip of his right hand, and raised the left gun instead.  He didn’t say a word as he turned the gun toward the truck and fired.

John yelled and promptly lost any awareness of what he was doing.  When he regained himself he was still shouting, the blond gunman’s head was missing its top third, and Sherlock’s pale face was gazing at him, dumbstruck, from the driver’s window.

John took a deep, gasping lungful of air, allowed his eyes to remain on _his_ Omega for five seconds, then blurred into motion as he dropped to his knees next to the driver.

“Are you hurt?” he asked.

The driver motioned to his left arm.  A line of blood welled through his white shirt, but apart from a few shards of glass in his face he seemed mostly intact.

John took a deep breath of relief.  “Right.  Good.  Get back in your truck and drive.  Fast.  Get out of here.”

The man was clearly in shock, and probably shouldn’t be driving, but there was no telling what else that weird Irish bastard was going to send their way, so it was clearly far safer for him to be in shock and driving than in shock and here.  The Alpha nodded and clambered up from where he was crouched.

Sherlock emerged from the truck.  “John?  John, are you hurt?”

John shook his head.  “No.  Grab my bag.”

Sherlock’s face collapsed in relief; he closed his eyes and let out a long-held breath.  Then, to John’s eternal delight, he collected himself quickly, nodded, and grabbed John’s overnight bag as instructed.

“Let’s go.”

Sherlock watched as the driver got back into the truck and drove off without another word.  “There goes our ride.”

“We’re not taking any more rides.”

“What?  Why?”

“Because it’s not my job to put innocent civilians in danger.”

“He’s going to report us to the police.”

“Yes, probably.”

“You don’t seem worried about it.”

“I’m not.”

“Why not?”

John took a deep breath and was filled with the smell of their connection.  It was the best thing he’d ever known.  “Because we have to be under the radar right now, at least for a while.  Do you understand that?”

Sherlock nodded.  “Rural roads, keep cover.”

“Yes.”  John turned Sherlock towards him and dusted glass shards from his shoulders, then raked his fingers through his hair.  He knew on an instinctive level he was grooming Sherlock, something that only happened between potential bondmates, but he was already lost to all of the helpless romance of his situation.  It didn’t matter anymore.  The only thing that mattered was keeping Sherlock safe.

Sherlock leaned into John’s touch.  “Thank you,” he whispered.

“Don’t mention it,” John said.  He wanted to take Sherlock’s hand again, but there was nobody for whom they’d have to perform this charade of couplehood.  It was just John’s whimsical impulse.  He squashed it.

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock wasn’t sure he was capable of more than single-syllable words.  Watching John shine like that, emitting righteous fury in his defense, was life-changing. 

“What do we do with . . .” John murmured, then gestured around him at the dead body and the Jag.

“Leave it,” Sherlock said, shaking his head and trying again to collect his errant thoughts.  “Mycroft is on his way and his cleaners will handle it.”

“And Mycroft is . . .?”

“My older Alpha brother, and the power behind the British Government.”

“Sounds serious.”

“Oh, he is.  Dreadfully so.”

John gave him a small smile, then asked, “How do you know he’s on his way?”

Sherlock ground his teeth together.  “Because he’s smarter than I am.”

John’s jaw dropped.

Sherlock flicked his hand dismissively at it.  “Oh, don’t get like that.  It’s convenient for situations like this.”

John rolled his eyes, but asked in a calm voice, “Shame we can’t take the car.”

Sherlock shrugged, but nodded.  “It’s likely rigged with, at best, a GPS device, and at worst, an explosive charge that would detonate if anyone but an authorized driver tried to take charge of the vehicle.”

“Fine.”  John turned away from the mess and carnage and towards a small footpath.  “I have no idea where we’re going,” he murmured.

Sherlock shook his head.  “It’s fine.  I do.”

“Yeah?”

Sherlock nodded.  “Yeah.”

 

* * *

 

 

The walk was actually rather pleasant.  They chatted as they crossed small, free-flowing streams by hopping from one rock to the next.  They enjoyed their silence as they meandered through farmlands dotted with barns and silos.  They appreciated the call of owls as dusk lengthened into night and the stars appeared overhead.

“We’re almost there,” Sherlock whispered.

“How do you know this place?” John asked.

“My Aunt Celia and my Uncle Cecil owned this farm in the 80s,” Sherlock answered.  He clambered over the split-rail fence far more gracefully than John did as he followed him.  “They had a few horses, goats, chickens.  It was their farmer phase, right before they retired.”  He looked around at the wide pasture in which they found themselves.  “We got to visit them on holiday from time to time.  It was nice.”

“Who owns it now?” John asked softly.

“My brother does.”

“Really?”

“Well, his trust does.  My trust has a provision for my family’s estate in Sussex.”

John gave a low whistle.  “Sussex seems to be a better prize than a farm in Farnborough.”

Sherlock nodded.  “Yes, but you have to realize he also will get a townhouse in Paris.”

“Bugger me.  How many properties—”

“More than we need,” Sherlock said gruffly, attempting to end the conversation.

“Right.  So I suppose we’re bunking here tonight.”

“Not in the house,” Sherlock said softly.

“Why not?”

“It’s under constant surveillance from Mycroft.”

“That’s a good thing, though, isn’t it?”

Sherlock screwed his eyes shut.  Logically, yes, it would be a good thing to let his brother know where they were so he could do the right thing and get Sherlock to London quickly.  He wasn’t so much preoccupied with the thought of Molly and her safehouse, except for the fact that he definitely would need a safehouse soon.  He was undeniably experiencing the precursory symptoms of his heat, and he knew exactly why.

But he couldn’t just tell John that he wanted one more night, a possibly final night, in his company, could he?  He couldn’t let on to the extent of his attachment, not without coming off as desperately in love (even though he was) and pitiful—and if Sherlock held on to nothing else from this thrilling experience, he had to come away with his dignity intact.

So he fibbed.  “Mycroft’s CCTV network out here isn’t the most sophisticated,” he said.  “It can be easily hacked, and I think our little friend—”

“Moriarty.”

“Moriarty, yes, I think he might be able to hack it.”

John sighed.  “Fine.  I’m fair knackered, Sherlock.  Where are we going to rest for the night?”

“The barn.”

John looked to his left to find the large red edifice of the barn rising under the flood of moonlight.  The structure had to be a hundred years old, but it appeared to be well-maintained and even formidable.

“Are there animals still using it?” John asked.

Sherlock chuckled.  “Maybe the odd barn cat, but no horses, goats, or chickens anymore.”

“Right then.”

They trudged up the small hill that led to the barn and let themselves in.  It was redolent of sweet hay and clover and the old leather of horse tack, and a few worn boards admitted some of that moonlight and starshine.  Sherlock had always thought the environment of the barn soothing, and it seemed John shared that opinion.

“This is . . .nice,” John said.  His voice was rough with fatigue.

Sherlock nodded and took his overnight bag from him.  John set about destroying a pallet of hay, smoothing it out into something resembling bedding.  Sherlock removed his jacket and several items of clothing from John’s bag and lay the soft things over the rougher spots of the improvised bed.  Neither of them mentioned how significant the act of creating a nest was between an Alpha and an Omega.

John took his dressing gown and lay it over an exposed beam positioned over the nest, forming the flimsiest wall in Great Britain.  “The walls of Jericho,” he whispered before going to the other side of the wall.

Sherlock thought he might cry.  This noble Knight still insisted on maintaining his virtue, even though they were going to sleep on the same nest.

This was going to be the longest night of his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am hereby dedicating this chapter (and our boys in the barn) to both Chryse and aranel_parmadil, in homage to both the fic and the podfic of "The Frost Is All Over." That fic blew my mind wide open regarding the possibilities of what good fanfic could accomplish, and I will be forever grateful. <3
> 
> Stay tuned, because in the next chapter our heroes will finally succumb to their attraction.


	7. The Nest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You need to say it, Sherlock,” John said, and his voice was far deeper than it had been before. 
> 
> Oh, Sherlock thought, that’s the Alpha Mating Snarl. I thought it was a myth.
> 
> “Yes,” Sherlock whispered.
> 
> “Louder,” John growled as he twitched the flimsy material of his dressing gown aside.
> 
> “Yes,” Sherlock said, almost too loudly. “Yes, John, yes, yes—”
> 
> John covered him with his body and pressed his mouth against Sherlock’s.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, everyone, this is where this fic gets EXPLICIT. If that's not your bag, well . . .I don't know what to say. Wonder if you've read my other work, if, um, maybe I was unclear about the bonding stuff? 
> 
> Probably would be good to let you skip this chapter and just let you know things get a little misunderstanding-y between our boys.
> 
> Everyone else, tuck yourselves in.

“Are we going to pretend we’re sleeping tonight?”

John blinked his eyes open.  “Yeah, I thought that was the plan.”

“Let’s not.”

John turned from his position on his right side, staring out through the gap in the barn door at the unnamed threats in the night.  He settled on his back and gazed resolutely at the ceiling and beyond it to the stars.  He did _not_ look at the silhouette on the other side of the worst excuse for a protective barrier he’d ever thought possible.  He could see Sherlock’s profile, softly outlined by the abundant starshine in the air.  Just the sight of Sherlock’s soft form took his breath away.

_Damn it.  I looked._

“Why not?”

“Bored.”

John smirked.  This was bittersweet, this banter between them.  “Brat.”

Sherlock hummed meditatively.  They drifted into a heavy silence.

“Sherlock?” John finally asked.

“Yes?”

“Tell me about your work.”

Sherlock did.  He told him about a serial killer who was caught because Sherlock noticed that the crime scenes had no fingerprints, but not because the killer wore gloves—the killer had mutilated his fingertips so he couldn’t be tracked.  Unfortunately he’d undertaken the procedure that most completely removed his fingerprints, but left behind a faded edge from the acid used.  It was a peculiar kind of acid, one that would only burn through a thin layer of epidermis, but that made it very easy to track.  It turned out the killer worked in a chemicals laboratory and had claimed he’d used the acid to clean resin from glass after an experiment on wax burn rates.  Sherlock had very much appreciated the man’s work and had finished the study after he’d ensured the man was locked away for life.  One day he’d start a beekeeping operation which would utilize a lot of the things he’d learned from the serial killer’s work.

“Quite a lot of other cases, along those same lines,” Sherlock finally said.

“I can see why you’d want to get back to it.  I, er.  I can see why you want to get back to her.”

They were some of the hardest words John had ever had to speak, and while he easily could have been humiliated by the choked sound of his voice, he really was far more impressed with himself that he’d been able to speak at all.

“Can you?” Sherlock asked.  “Because it’s really rather brilliant.  I wouldn’t have to be stuck as nothing more than _Sherlock Holmes, Omega_.  I could make a difference, John.  I could.”

“I know that.”

“Why wouldn’t I want to have that chance?  To move in the world without any of those traditionalist expectations, free to experiment and solve puzzles—if they help people, these puzzles and how I solve them, then isn’t that good?”

John felt his eyes sting, then water.  He could see it, Sherlock on fire in the chase, his brilliant eyes flashing, putting Alphas to shame all around him.  This man was so much more than Omega.  He was so much more than anyone else John had ever met, and he wanted nothing more than to help Sherlock get what he wanted.  _I will give you everything you ask for.  Every single thing._

“And if she can help me with my work, then wouldn’t that make this a good partnership?”  Sherlock sighed.  “Just to have someone who could help me, who would never hold me back.  Picture it, John—a comfortable place for me to do my experiments, writing up cases in the evening, simple companionship in the mornings—a helper, an assistant.”

“But . . .without love, Sherlock?”

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock’s breath caught in his lungs.  _Love._   How _dare_ John bring that up now, right now, on the longest night of Sherlock’s life.  John, who had introduced the possibility, the opportunity, to balk all of his preconceived notions about who he was and what he wanted.  John had been the catalyst, the change agent in the grand experiment of his life, and how _dare_ he utter the word love right now?

“How could I ever expect that?” Sherlock finally said, softening his voice to try to hide how wrecked and rough it was with unshed tears.  “How could I ever hope to find someone who could give me that, the lovely help of an assistant—and love too?  No.  Impossible.  Where could I ever find—”

The walls of Jericho twitched, and Sherlock looked down towards his feet to see John’s eyes shining with tears in the low light. 

“Please, let it be me,” John whispered.

Sherlock’s ears filled with a high, thin sound, like the resounding echo of a rung bell.  John knelt at his feet, perched in their nest, his Alpha scent strong and pure around him.  The moonlight rendered him a marble effigy of a Knight, on his knees, the ghost of his warmth glowing in his eyes.

John’s voice came through this fog, clear as that rung bell, his voice soft and beseeching and filling Sherlock’s head: “Please, choose me.  I don’t have anything to offer you but my name, and my faithfulness, and my effort every day to make you happy.  God, Sherlock, I want to make you so happy.  Please, choose me.  Let me be your Alpha.”

The future rose before Sherlock, two branched paths snaking to his left and right in the caverns of his Mind Palace.  To his left waited Molly Hooper, and sterile hospital corridors, the hush of the morgue, the cold clink of glass and metal.  It was a clear future, but it held no consequence when compared to the path leading to his right.

John was there, shining in his resplendent armor, wielding his gun like a sword, smiling at him.  The course before them was riddled with traps and puzzles and obstacles and nearly-certain death, but John was eager for the fight, for the opportunity to defend his . . .

His _mate_.

Was that what John had just offered?  Had he offered to be Sherlock’s mate?  To bond him, to knot him, to make him his?

In the past Sherlock would have been disturbed by the very suggestion—but being John’s, that was.  That was worth risking everything, for just one night . . .

“You need to say it, Sherlock,” John said, and his voice was far deeper than it had been before. 

 _Oh,_ Sherlock thought, _that’s the Alpha Mating Snarl.  I thought it was a myth._

“Yes,” Sherlock whispered.

“Louder,” John growled as he twitched the flimsy material of his dressing gown aside.

“Yes,” Sherlock said, almost too loudly.  “Yes, John, yes, yes—”

John covered him with his body and pressed his mouth against Sherlock’s.

 

* * *

 

 

At the touch of Sherlock’s mouth, John nearly lost all coherent thought.  They fell almost immediately into a natural, instinctive rhythm, mouths working together, lips parting to admit one tongue, glossing over teeth, between teeth to touch the other, swallowing bitten off cries of pleasure.  John’s hands were in Sherlock’s hair, ruffling the curls to release potent waves of the Omega’s scent.  He broke away from Sherlock’s unbelievably decadent mouth to take great lungfuls of that scent.

Sherlock leaned his head away from John, exposing his ripe scent gland.

“This will bring on your heat,” John said, his voice still deep and needy.

“Yes.”

 _Mate_ , John thought as he bent over Sherlock’s neck.  His eyes rolled back in his head from the almost-unbearable pleasure of having the essence of that scent in his mouth.  The only thing that could be better than this would be to taste Sherlock’s slick, the lubrication he released during heat to stoke his mate’s desire into a mating frenzy.

Sherlock’s hand trembled as it cradled the back of John’s head, nudging him deeper into his gland.  John lapped slowly at it, giving the gland time to regenerate another dose of essence before he brought it into himself.  Sherlock’s essence was entering his bloodstream, he could virtually feel it, a warmth moving from his belly through his veins to his heart.  He was half afraid of what would happen when it reached his lungs, because he was having a hard enough time breathing now.

“Mine,” John rasped, breaking away from Sherlock’s neck to stare down at him in delighted shock.  “Never could have dreamt—”

Sherlock held his arms out to John.  “Alpha,” he said, his voice low and sweet.  “Please.”

John screwed his eyes shut.  This was beautiful, this moment, with this Omega.  This was too beautiful for him to contain.

“You’re so beautiful,” he confessed, slowly unbuttoning Sherlock’s shirt.  “How are you real?  So beautiful, Sherlock.  Such a lovely Omega.”

Sherlock frowned.

“And so clever,” John quickly amended.  “The only Omega I’ve ever wanted like this.”

“Really?” Sherlock asked, his scarlet lips drawing all of John’s attention.  He pressed a thumb against the lower lip for a second, because his body wanted it and his body was completely in charge at the moment.  Sherlock’s eyes closed slowly, his eyelashes fanning out into a delicate smudge against his sharp cheekbones.

“Oh god, yes,” John whispered in awe.  “I never believed an Omega like you existed.  So bright, talented, courageous.  You are unbelievable.”

Sherlock stammered as his shirt opened completely down the front.

John froze.  “What?”

Sherlock clamped his eyes closed and John could almost read his thoughts, could see how embarrassed he was by his words, but apparently unable to stop himself from speaking.  “I play the violin when I’m thinking.  Sometimes I don’t talk for days on end.”

John grinned.  Sherlock was _appalled_.  His cheeks burned crimson even in the low light, and he was frowning at himself.  “I also have been known to turn to, er, illicit substances to, mm, concentrate.”

“No more of that,” John growled, and nipped at Sherlock’s neck.

Sherlock whined.  “No, no more of that.”

“Please.”

“Yes, my Alpha.”

John’s vision blacked out for a brief second as those words in that voice moved through his system.  Then he decided to do nothing that did not get Sherlock ready for his heat.

 

* * *

 

 

Betas were rarely correct about what happened between an Alpha and an Omega the night before the bonding ceremony.  Something had to happen, yes.  It was a biological tradition from the dawn of time, that the bond was proposed and accepted, then the parties would spend the night alone together before the bond.

But Betas were under the impression that the pairs went _all the way_.  This was, of course, ridiculous; until a full heat an Omega’s body was not able to accommodate full penetration by the beyond-impressive proportions of an aroused Alpha penis.

No, the night before was for the purpose of extended exposure to each other’s pheromones, the cellular exchange of biological intelligence that would inform the Omega of the, er, _size_ of the intended Alpha.  The Omega’s body spent the day arranging itself to accommodate, then getting the ova ready for the breeding congress.

All of this sounds dreadfully dull and scientific, I know, but I thought I should explain a little bit about the traditions, since it’s very likely you’re a Beta and you’d been exposed to the misinformation.  Not all of Alpha/Omega sex is penetration; in fact, it’s usually reserved for special occasions.  It’s too intense for regular use.

 

* * *

 

 

John moved down his body methodically, kissing every inch of skin he could reach, fumbling with the flies of Sherlock’s trousers.  Sherlock closed his eyes and retreated to his Mind Palace.

Banners fluttered from the ramparts, flying the red and green caduceus of the RAMC.  Every soldier posted in the turrets and at the gates had flinty-blue eyes.  It smelled like excitement and danger and _home_.

John was everywhere here.  He filled the Palace.  He _was_ the Palace.  He was the home of Sherlock’s heart, and Sherlock would shatter without him.

John parted Sherlock’s flies and pulled his pants down roughly.  Sherlock looked down at him there, stripped of his clothing and poised over Sherlock’s Omega cock, a wicked smile quirking his lips, before John buried his nose in the nest of Sherlock’s pubic hair.

Sherlock fell back into the straw nest, turned his face into John’s spare jumper, and bit down.  John’s tongue ran down the length of Sherlock’s delicate cock, then swept across the head as John pivoted and took it all into his mouth.

Sherlock’s eyes popped open and he rose slightly, gasping for air.  John’s tongue tickled and traced a steady rhythm into the bottom of his cock and his upper lip was firm and wet against the top of it.  Saliva dribbled from the nearly-complete seal John’s mouth had made around him.

“Oh,” Sherlock gasped, then he made an urgent humming noise.  “John, I’m so close.”

“Yeah,” John whispered without actually removing the entire cock from his mouth.  His lips fluttered against the head as he spoke.  “Do it, Sherlock.  Come all over my face.”

And honestly, after hearing something like that in Captain John Watson’s voice, Sherlock had no choice at all but to obey.  He came, and the orgasm coupled with the rich scent of a ready Alpha triggered the ova and the countdown to his heat.

It also dosed the air of the barn with the thick scent of Sated Omega, which triggered the orgasm in the Alpha member of the pair.  It was so strong John was sure there was a hint of a knot forming at the base of his cock.  He came all over Sherlock’s cock with Sherlock’s cum on his face.

There was no way they could be more covered in each other’s scent.  The clock was ticking.  Sherlock would be in full heat in twenty-four hours.

They collapsed in a heap together, relaxed and satisfied and completely in love, insomuch as that love was unspoken.

And therein hid the problem, because until love is spoken and understood, it’s at risk.

 

* * *

 

 

John stirred a few hours later.

He was wrapped around Sherlock, his chest pressed against the Omega’s back, his arms around his waist.  Sherlock’s curls were tickling his nose.

The memory of what they’d done replayed in his mind.  He shuddered; he could smell himself on Sherlock and he could smell Sherlock on him.  The smell of Sherlock’s approaching heat was warm and rich, like a mulled cider.  John’s every instinct was to safehouse, to fortify the nest and apply his most potent protective scent to every wall before closing off his Omega to keep him safe.

But to do that, he would have to be licensed.  He had to make the formal claim on Sherlock, had to be granted a license to get him safehoused and bred, if it came to that.  He would take formal responsibility for Sherlock and their brood. 

Yes, he would do this, because it was the right thing and it was the best way to start their lives together.  He would find a way to support his family, even if this Beta, Molly (and only thinking the name made him growl jealously) wouldn’t offer her help in finding a job (and who could blame her?), he would do something.

“Did you mean it, brat?” he asked.  Sherlock snored softly and his hands twitched against John’s forearms.  He was deeply asleep.  It was so endearing, so beautiful, such a privilege to see this.  “Did you mean it?  You’ll have me?  I mean, I suppose I should assume so, since we’ve very likely triggered your heat, but we didn’t say.  Oh, sod it, it’s already started, no way to stop it.”

He looked down at Sherlock’s face, watched his eyes dart around behind his closed eyelids, REM sleep in progress.  “I’m going to go, but don’t go anywhere.  You stay right there.  I’m going to do the right thing, alright?  I have to do the right thing.”

John pulled away slowly, hoping not to wake Sherlock.  Sherlock whined and gripped him tighter.  It was horrible, this experience, this leaving the most important person in the world.  It was excruciating. 

But John really was a Knight, and he would do the right thing no matter how much it hurt.

The only mistake he made was not saying it, especially because Sherlock heard the silences in his dreams.

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock entered his Mind Palace through his dream.  John was at the dais, standing near his throne.  None of this was surprising to Sherlock, except for the fact that John was so unsettled.

 

“Oh, sod it, it’s already started, no way to stop it,” he murmured into the phone.  He held up a finger to Sherlock, holding him off with an arrogant Alpha gesture.  It was so typical of an Alpha, but not this one.  Never this one.

“I’m going to go,” John said softly, ending the call and turning to face Sherlock.  “But don’t go anywhere.”  His smile was false, not even skin-deep, just a drawn-on clown’s smile.  “You stay right there.  I’m going to do the right thing, alright?”  He unlocked his phone and turned the screen towards Sherlock.  The headline screamed from the phone’s screen:

_HOLMES FAMILY OFFERS ONE MILLION POUND REWARD FOR SHERLOCK’S RETURN_

Sherlock gaped as he stared at John.  John shrugged and turned away.  “I have to do the right thing.”

Sherlock cried out and fell to his knees like his strings had been cut.  John left him there, alone, cold, and trembling, with the strongest heat of his lifetime closing in on him, triggered by John’s own scent.

It really wasn’t a surprise to Sherlock, in the end, when he woke alone in John’s nest.  But it still hurt.  He turned onto his side, John’s scent all around him, and let out a piteous wail that had come straight from his heart. 

He rose from the nest, trembling, a cold sweat breaking out on his skin.  He located his jacket and pulled out that cheap feature phone he’d gotten at that tourist stop, what felt like a lifetime ago.  He thought about what would happen when he turned on this mobile—he saw it like a diagram in his head.  The satellite providing signal to the nearby tower would locate his phone and connect to the network, where one of Mycroft’s hacker’s daemons would find it and notify Mycroft.  If Moriarty was worth a piss, he would be notified almost at the same moment.  Then it would be a race, surely a glorious one, between an aspiring super-criminal and the very power behind the Throne.

It was tiresome in the extreme.  Sherlock turned on the phone and wrapped himself in John’s dressing gown to await the victor.

 


	8. Clearly Insane

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was Sherlock’s family, and they didn’t trust John, and god, he didn’t know how he’d live without Sherlock, but he didn’t ever want there to be distance between Sherlock and his family, not if he could help it. Maybe he could win them over, slowly. Maybe he could find a way to prove to them how much he felt, how much he loved. But if they didn’t trust him, he wouldn’t, god, he couldn’t do that to the man he loved, the man he treasured.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the angstiest part of the story, I think. After this we should be all-systems-go for a light and bright ending--so thank you for enduring just this taste of pain with me.

 

 

Mycroft stared down at the text on his phone in shock.

 

_Bonding License Application_

_Alpha: Capt. John H. Watson, MD, RAMC (Ret’d)_

_Omega: William Sherlock Scott Holmes_

_Flag Level: 3, Rogue Omega_

_Security Notification: Realm Guardian_ Only

_Location: Region Bailey, Farnborough_

His first thought was, _Oops, little brother.  Did you accidentally trigger a heat?_

But of much greater concern was the applicant on the license.  _Capt. John H. Watson, MD, RAMC (Ret’d)_

He had dismissed the file when his Beta PA had turned it over to him, following the interviews conducted on several members of the tour group Sherlock had infiltrated two days ago.  He didn’t think it was relevant; whoever this Alpha was, he was completely insignificant, as insignificant as a boarding pass, a means to an end. 

But—bonding licenses were only issued for those Alpha/Omega pairs who had initiated the pheremonal exchange.  The beginning of the bonding rite was this scent exchange, and it left behind its mark; a scarlet, swollen scent gland that was furiously preparing the Alpha’s teeth for the bond bite, and the Omega’s body for the Alpha’s intrusion and seed.  All that was needed was that an Alpha present him or herself to the appropriate licensing authority, present the gland for inspection, and have the gland swabbed for the Omega’s essence so the Omega could be easily identified.  After all of those things were done the license would be issued once the fee was paid or the appropriate promissory note was released.  It didn’t matter if the Omega was Rogue; once a license was issued all Rogue notifications were canceled because as far as the government was concerned, the Omega was spoken for, and any unresolved differences had to be resolved between the Omega’s family and the Omega’s Alpha.  In fact, a license of this kind superceded all other claims, including the ridiculous Intent to Marry contract between Sherlock and Molly Hooper.

That meant that somehow, this Alpha had gotten Mycroft’s pig-headed little brother to accept a scent exchange.

Mycroft flipped through the dossier, absorbing at a glance the reports on John’s schooling, military service, and the injury that sent him home with a pension and no clearly defined next steps.  He scanned the scant notes obtained from John’s therapist, most notably an underlined note that read: _Has trust issues_.   _Exhibits fatalistic, possibly suicidal statements._

The reports built a three-dimensional representation of John H. Watson, MD in Mycroft’s mind, and he studied him for a long time.  _Who are you, then?_ He thought to himself as he gazed into the unflinching eyes of this soldier.  _And what do you want with Sherlock?_

“Detain him,” Mycroft told his PA.  She nodded.  “I want to question him myself.”

She stopped typing on her phone and looked up at him in mute surprise.

“Oh, I know,” he sighed.  She nodded and dialed a number, then pressed the phone against her ear.  “I’ll just be Mummy, shall I?  Meet the intended?”  She smirked at him, then started speaking into her mobile, short, softly-murmured commands that escaped any attempt of disobedience.

 

* * *

 

 

John was on fire.

He had the license, the document that carried with it all appropriate permissions to breed his identified and confirmed Omega. 

_His._

In the eyes of the British Government, and therefore the world, he was Sherlock’s rightful Alpha.  The swollen red gland on his neck was evidence; an Omega had chosen him, permitted him to begin the exchange.  Identifying the Omega had been the easy part.  The hard part had been facing down the licensing agents at the 24-hour licensing spot in Farnborough.  It had been as though he’d applied to bond with the Crown Princess of the Moon.

Nothing mattered right now but getting back to Sherlock.

He would get him to London.  Yes.  On the back of this motorcycle, it would be no trouble.  As he got Sherlock packed up and loaded onto the bike he would call a safehouse operator and secure a place for them.  Then . . .he would . . ..

He opened up the throttle on the sleek black motorcycle he’d found in the garage that had adjoined the main house.  He was probably being tracked now, he thought deliriously as the motorcycle roared beneath him, carrying him back to his love.  That was fine.  Let anyone foolish enough to track an Alpha back to his nest deal with the consequences.  Nothing would stop him now from giving Sherlock everything he wanted.  He grinned into the wind.

Then he heard it: the distinct sound of a helicopter, rising behind him. 

He turned over his shoulder.  There was no mistaking the bright lights covering the copter; they swung back and forth as the helicopter regained equilibrium, like a strobe light over and around John and the motorcycle, making his shadow pendulum before him in the darkness.  His eyes goggled for a moment before he shook his head.  _Of course_ , he thought as he swerved the bike off the road and killed the engine before laying it down, _if anyone is going to be chased via_ bloody helicopter _, it would be Sherlock._

But he’d be damned if he led the pursuers straight to his Omega.

He whipped the gun out of its hiding place against the small of his back and brought it around in front of him, bracing his right hand with his left as he took aim.

The military-grade Cobra attack helicopter drifted to a stop in front of him.

“DROP YOUR WEAPON, DR. WATSON.”

It was a woman’s voice blasting through the public address system, John was startled to realize. 

“Drop yours,” he said evenly, motioning to the two cannons mounted on the wings on either side of the Cobra.

“DR. WATSON, YOU WILL DROP YOUR WEAPON.”

“Yeah?  Why would I do that?”

“WE ARE PLACING YOU IN PROTECTIVE CUSTODY.”

“We?”

Time became a little stretchy as John looked down at his body to find it covered in tiny red scoping lights.  He distantly became aware of multiple red lights shining in his eyes from the dark treeline around him.

“DOWN!” the voice from the copter boomed.

John dropped and covered his head with his left arm, his gun still gripped tightly in his right.  The rattle of automatic weapons fire erupted around him.  Battle instincts engaged, and he rolled to his left as debris rained down on him.  Distantly he realized that it wasn’t the helicopter firing at him; choppers are rarely sighted like that, with garish red sights that would give away any stealth attack. 

 _Assassins_ , he thought stupidly as he rolled to his feet.  _Snipers._

“CEASE FIRE,” the woman said sharply.

The crackle of another public address speaker coming awake got John’s attention from over his right shoulder.  “MAKE ME,” the teasing voice of the Irish Alpha, Moriarty, chirped.

John had rolled well clear of the cannons mounted on the Cobra.  He was sure that meant something, now that those cannons strafed the surrounding vegetation in which hid what suddenly seemed to be at least a dozen gunmen.  At the very least it had to be courtesy.  Even so, he put a little more distance between himself and the display of Her Majesty’s military might; could never be too careful with these things, after all.

John was seized from behind and pulled into the darkness of the surrounding vegetation.

Something massive that had been held at bay for two decades suddenly breached John’s waking mind.  It was huge, and heavy, and hard, and hot, and it wanted to destroy anything and everything that stood between it and his Omega.  This was the truest version of John’s Alpha, and it was _pissed off_.

He reached behind him with his left hand and grabbed the faceless man by the scruff of the neck.  Then he raised the gun in his right hand in a gesture that felt like a memory, placed it against the temple of the man behind him and blew his brains out.

Then his muscles began to run on instinct.  He pointed his gun behind him and around him, tracking the flickering red lights of the snipers’ scopes and firing at them like they were targets on a firing range, or point banners in a carnival game.  He was going to kill every one of them and bring their heads back to his Omega as tributes, as toys.  John Watson the man would be deeply disturbed by these thoughts; John Watson the Alpha was darkly amused.  _His_ mate would appreciate the gesture; that’s why he was _his_.

Eventually the symphony of firing guns stopped, trailing off into a small scattering of pops as John fired his last rounds.  John stepped back into the bright lights cast off by the Cobra and beat his chest twice with his left hand, which was still covered in a dead man’s brains and gore: “Come on!  You will not keep me from my Omega, so come _die_ if you want to try to take him from me!”  He gazed into the Cobra and repeated his taunt: “Come and _die_.”

The sniper in the helicopter was far more sophisticated than Moriarty’s laser-sighted goons.  He did not have a red laser calling out his location.  He steadied his gun on John’s enraged scent gland, took a deep breath, and fired.

The sedative dart landed on John’s neck, just under his ear.  He staggered, then dropped to his knees, the Alpha receding from his eyes to leave behind a deeply wounded and sad man.

“Why?” he asked before he lost consciousness and crumpled to the ground beneath him.

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock was curled around himself when Mycroft found him in the barn, still wrapped in John Watson’s dressing gown.  His face was pressed deeply into John’s clothing, scattered about on what looked like a rudimentary nest.  His hands clutched spasmodically at the space around his abdomen, and his features were twisted in agony.

“Mycroft,” he sobbed as his brother came closer.  “John.  Safehouse.”

“Shh, brother mine,” Mycroft said gently.  He could smell the state Sherlock was in.  The heat was coming—not fast, but sure and strong.

“John.  Alpha.  Where is my Alpha?” Sherlock asked, bewildered, then grimaced again and pressed his palms against his belly.  “Ow.”

Mycroft tutted.  He wrapped a blanket brought for that purpose around his brother, to keep his scent—well, the combined scent of him and his chosen Alpha—concentrated against his skin.  Absent the pure essence of this Alpha, it was the best he could do to soothe the Omega.  He shifted Sherlock’s body against him and moved to lift him from the nest.

“No,” Sherlock whispered, and his voice was soft and sad.  “John.”

“Come, Sherlock,” Mycroft murmured.  “I have to get you to a safehouse.”

“John,” Sherlock repeated wearily.  “Nest.  Mate.”

Mycroft frowned against his brother’s head.  Sherlock was reduced to single syllables.  He’d be in awe of this development if he wasn’t appalled by what it meant: Sherlock had been completely willing, and so had the Alpha. 

Perhaps this wasn’t a desperately sad situation, after all.  Perhaps all he had to do was bring these two together again, and everything else would come naturally, easily. 

Then he considered his brother again.  No, things never were easy with Sherlock.  This couldn’t be either, could it?

“Sherlock.”

“Mate.  John.”  Sherlock whimpered as another cramp hit him.  “Not . . .here?”

“No, Sherlock, he’s not here.”

“Not mine?”

“I haven’t spoken to him.”

“John,” Sherlock whispered sadly.  “Not mine.  Never mine.”  He sniffled.  “Don’t deserve him.  Knight.  John, Alpha, Knight, not mine.”

This was breaking Mycroft’s heart.  He gently moved Sherlock out of the barn, ignoring his wails for his nest, and placed him carefully in the scent-blocking backseat of the black sedan.  He then got into the front seat beside the driver (because honestly, brother or no, there was very little patience left in him for the smell of pre-bond Omega pheromones) and checked his mobile.

_Dr. Watson in custody. -007_

He smiled.  At least that much was going well.  _Good.  Bring to Buckingham Alpha cellar.  I will place Sherlock in the Omega cellar at Diogenes and be right there. -M_

_16 hours until heat, according to analysis of Watson’s gland. -007_

He appreciated the reminder on an intellectual level, but on another level it felt like he’d been kicked.  He had little time to make arrangements for this, and he knew full well Mummy and Father would want to be in town to celebrate this momentous occasion.  He rather felt like celebrating himself.

 

* * *

 

 

John looked up from the bland grey table in this cellar.  He’d been in cellars before; it was common to put Alphas in combat in a cellar like this, a room carefully filtered free of pheromones, covered in bland colors, relaxing music piped in through the overhead speakers at an inoffensive volume.  He knew full well Alpha cellars did wonders for men in combat, Alphas whose instincts had driven a bloodlust in them.  In fact, he’d often prescribed time in cellar as a form of PTSD therapy to some fellow soldiers who’d also had to report to group therapy, back when that was still a daily part of John’s life, part of his rehabilitation from the shoulder injury that had ended his career as a surgeon.

But right now he found the damned thing hateful.  He resorted to sniffing along his skin, searching for the scraps of Sherlock’s scent that still lingered on him after all of these hours.  Every time he found a dose of the scent he closed his eyes in bliss, remembering the flash of Sherlock’s quicksilver gaze, the brilliance of his smile, and the meteoric intelligence of his genius.  His Omega, his beautiful, brilliant love—everything Sherlock meant to John, every bit of purpose John had found in his presence, was concentrated by that scent.

He looked up again, sensing the arrival of another Alpha.  He’d been growling at the few that had disturbed him here, in this cellar, to bring him food or water or offer time to relieve himself, but this Alpha did not earn John’s anger.  This Alpha smelled of a familial relationship to Sherlock.

 _Sherlock’s kin_! The Alpha inside him whispered joyfully.  He rose to his feet as the door opened.  The man who entered was dressed with an efficient elegance, and his gaze was as insightful and intelligent as Sherlock’s, but without the grace.

“You must be Mycroft,” John said, drawing up to his full height.

“Mm, yes,” Mycroft said, and gestured to John’s seat.  “Please, do sit down.”

“I don’t want to sit down,” John barked.  He shook his head, wrestling with his instincts.  “I’m sorry, I just.  I need to get back to him.”

“Do you?” Mycroft asked casually as he took the seat opposite John.

John did not respond to this cue.  He remained standing.  “Yes!  Of course.”  He pulled the license from his back pocket and slapped it down on the table in front of him.  “I’m licensed.”

“Yes,” Mycroft said with a dismissive sniff.  “That.”  He pulled it from the table and examined it.  “Did my brother tell you why he was trying to get to London?”

“Yes.” 

Mycroft looked up in surprise from his study of the license.  “Did he?  Pray tell, what exactly did he say?”

“He’d signed an Intent to Marry with Molly Hooper, and he wanted to get home to her so he could do his work.”

“Yes.”

John gestured to the license in Sherlock’s hand.  “That says it doesn’t matter.”

Mycroft smiled.  The smile did not reach his eyes.  “And it must be very convenient for you, Dr. Watson.”

“What do you know about me?”

“Everything.”

John sighed.  “Right.  And that’s not good enough for you, everything you know about me.”

“What I think of you is irrelevant, or, at least it is so far.”  Mycroft placed the license on the table and tented his fingertips against his chin.  “What I want to know from you is why you’ve taken up with my brother.”

John frowned.  “Because I’m clearly insane.”

“Really?”

“Yes!” John finally did sit down.  “A guy would have to be, to sign up for all that willingly.  Sign up to be chased across the country, and shot at, and spend every single penny in my pocket to keep him safe.  And for what?” John grunted as he leaned back in the chair and fixed his gaze on this man.  “When he’s related to people who can throw me in a cellar and interrogate me, despite the license that allows me to go to him and safehouse him—”

“And breed him,” Mycroft said darkly.

“That sounds like our business, not yours,” John said, just as darkly.

Mycroft tilted his head to one side, conceding the point.  “I’m merely here to protect Sherlock’s interests.  You have to understand my reservations, sir.  Until three days ago Sherlock was only interested in a means to an end.  Do you honestly mean to tell me that in the past 48 hours you’ve impressed him so thoroughly he’s willing to give up all of those dreams of a career and freedom?”

“Who says he has to give that up?” John growled.  “I would never make him give up a thing he wanted to do—a thing he was _born_ to do.  The world needs him.  I simply want to be the one he comes home to, the one he takes with him, who takes care of him.”

Mycroft’s hands dropped from where they’d been pressed against his chin.  “And his fortune has nothing to do with that?”

“I don’t care fuck-all about his money,” John said, but he suddenly felt tired.  “But—if you don’t intend to let me near him, I’d at least like to be compensated for this license.”  He tapped the paper with this left forefinger.  “If I’m not allowed to use it, I’ll need the cash.”

“Ah, yes, let’s talk about your finder’s fee,” Mycroft prompted.  John could tell the slimy sod had been trying to get to this point almost from almost the beginning of the interrogation, that’s how much his eyes lit up at the mention of money.

“Can’t you get it through your posh head?” John asked incredulously.  “I don’t care about your money.  I don’t care about _his_ money.  I care about his work, about his well-being, about his goddamn brilliance.”  John sighed.  This was Sherlock’s family, and they didn’t trust John, and god, he didn’t know how he’d live without Sherlock, but he didn’t ever want there to be distance between Sherlock and his family, not if he could help it.  Maybe he could win them over, slowly.  Maybe he could find a way to prove to them how much he felt, how much he loved.  But if they didn’t trust him, he wouldn’t, god, he couldn’t do that to the man he loved, the man he treasured.  “Do you know what it’s like, seeing that kind of intelligence, seeing him come alive with it?”  He smiled despite the prickling pain of oncoming tears.  “He’s so _beautiful_ in that moment, the most breathtaking thing I’ve ever seen.  I would give my life to protect that.”  John’s smile melted and he whimpered as his need to be with Sherlock shuddered through him again.  “But, if I can’t be his guardian, just . . .just give me the money from the license.  I’ll take that.”  John sniffed and nodded his head once, resolved to his fate.  “But I’m going to keep the dream he sold me.  I didn't kill his dreams, and you don't get to kill mine.  I deserve that much, to keep dreaming, for keeping him safe.”

Mycroft’s gaze was shrewd.  It wasn’t the look of someone who didn’t believe him, John noted; instead, it was the look of someone who’d seen a unicorn for the first time and refused to let go of his cynicism.  Finally, Mycroft nodded.  “Run your chip through this machine,” Mycroft said, producing a chip terminal from his pocket.  John unlocked his mobile and pressed it against the reader.  Apparently the git was used to settling accounts in these circumstances.

“Fine, can I go now?” John asked.

“Yes.  My PA will take you anywhere you want to go.”  Mycroft stood and moved towards the door.  “It’s been an honor to meet you, Captain Watson,” he said.

“Tell your brother,” John said sharply, like a bark of pain from a kicked dog.  “Tell him . . .tell him he’s a brat, but I . . .”  John hesitated.  “I would give him every single thing.”

Mycroft studied him for another few seconds before he nodded and left.

 

* * *

 

 

Mycroft opened the transaction portal for the chip terminal and entered the deposit: five thousand pounds, deposited immediately in the accounts of John H. Watson.

“That should get you started properly,” he whispered, then smirked as he sent a text to his PA:

 _Deliver Dr. Watson to the safehouse in the basement of 221 Baker Street_ – _M_

_He told me to take him to his walkup -007_

_Orders, agent. Affect compliance, then black out windows and take him where I’ve bid–M_

_Yes sir. -007_

_I am paying a visit to Dr. Hooper. –M_

Mycroft looked at the face of his watch and smiled.  Ten hours, and Sherlock would have everything he ever wanted.  It would be gorgeous.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, you'll see I've added a definite chapter count. The happily-ever-after portion of our program will be two chapters long: one for wicked Alpha/Omega smut, and one for an epilogue of the fluffiest kind.
> 
> Seriously, thank you all for the lovely comments. If you haven't left one yet, I'd love to hear your opinion. Comments are like muse treats!


	9. Forevermore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft smirked. “Do you love him, too?”  
> “With every beat of my heart, with every breath, with every thought,” Sherlock said, without hesitation.  
> “Shall I take you to him?”  
> “Yes, yes, yes please, Mycroft, please!” Sherlock’s voice had regained that Omega wail, the ancient call for the mate. It was shrill to Mycroft’s ears.  
> “Fine, fine. We’ll be there in five minutes.”

Molly woke slowly, despite the fact that her mobile was buzzing at 30-second intervals—no matter her certainty that _nobody would keep calling and texting me when I so obviously want to be left alone this morning, for heaven’s sake_ —because the doorbell had decided to participate in the clamor. 

She cursed under her breath and rose from her warm, comfortable bed reluctantly.  She stretched.  Her muscles felt tight and well-used, but not adequately stretched.  Yeah, she really needed to get rid of whatever pest was blowing up her phone, and doubly-so if that was the same person holding down her doorbell.  Her cat, Toby, decided this was the perfect time to add his voice to the cacophony.

She moaned at him as she wrapped her dressing gown around herself and made her way to the door of her flat: “Toby, please, stop.  The whole world doesn’t wake up when your stomach does.”

He scowled at her and led the way to the door, like a put-upon butler whose employers don’t respect him.

“Thanks,” she said softly to him before wrenching the door open.

“Ah, Dr. Hooper,” the silky voice of Mycroft Holmes drawled.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, rightfully disposing of pleasantries.  Nobody who disturbed her from the morning she wanted to have was deserving of pleasantries.

“I thought I should settle our accounts.”

“Sherlock will do that when he gets here,” she said, cross.

“He won’t be coming.”

That pulled her up short.  “He . . . _won’t_?”

“No.”

“And why not?”

“He’s found an Alpha and they’re going to complete their bond by this evening.”

“Oh.”  She blinked at him a few times, slotting this information into place in her mind and quickly rearranging several other thoughts to make sure everything fit nicely again.  It did.  In fact, it fit better than ever.  She grinned.  “Good.”

Mycroft frowned at her.  “Good?  Why good?”

“It’s not good, then?”

“You were going to marry him.”

She shrugged.  “Yes, I _was_ , but it sounds like circumstances have changed.”

“For him, certainly.  But for you?”

She put a hand on her hip and cocked her head at him.  “Oi!  What are you saying?”

“Simply that I was under the impression you were quite besotted.”

She waved it off.  “Yes, well, a friend pointed out to me that I deserved better than that, so . . .”

“A friend?”

“Who’s it?” Came a sleep-roughened voice from over her shoulder.  She could smell the warm, cottony fragrance of her bedclothes on the man who pressed into her back and wrapped his arms around her.

“Greg, this is Mycroft Holmes,” she said softly, turning her face over her shoulder and accepting his kiss on her temple.  She then smiled at the man at the door.  “Mr. Holmes, this is Gregory Lestrade, Detective Inspector with the Met.”

“One of Sherlock’s friends,” Mycroft said as Greg moved three inches out of their embrace to shake his hand.

“I am that,” Greg said.  She turned more fully towards him and broke into startled laughter; he was wearing her fluffy pink bathrobe, festooned with white embroidered kittens.  “You must be the older brother he threatens me with from time to time.”

“Yes,” Mycroft said.

“Great.  There really _are_ two of them.”  Greg took as discreet a sniff of the air as he was able.  “And you’re an Alpha.”

“You’re a Beta,” Mycroft said.

“Yes.”  Greg stepped back into place behind Molly.  “Is there anything else we can do for you, Mr. Holmes?”

Molly was amused by Mycroft’s discomfited look.  “Ah, er.  Well.  I came by to let Molly know that her Intent to Marry document with Sherlock has been voided by a bonding license.”

Greg’s jaw dropped.  Molly could feel it, but she turned to look anyway.  Greg was just as startled by this as she should have been when she’d first heard the news—happily, she’d been too busy being disgruntled by the interruption of her lie-in and the hope she felt at the prospect of morning sex.  “Really?” Greg asked.

“Yes,” Mycroft answered. 

“Blimey.”

“Yes,” Mycroft agreed.

“Right.  Well, I suppose that’s a good thing—isn’t it, Molls?” Greg asked.

She smiled and felt a scarlet blush creep up her neck and into her face.  “A very good thing.”

“Tell your brother we’re dead-chuffed for him and when he’s able to we’ll celebrate with both of them.”  Greg arched an eyebrow.  “I suppose you approve?”

“Does it matter?” Mycroft asked.  “A bonding license nearly strips all rights from the family, when it comes to things like this.”

Greg smirked.  “It does matter, because you have the reputation for overriding all rules when you need to.”

Mycroft shrugged.  “Sherlock’s chosen is a . . .a good man.  It’s possible he can help my brother become one, too.”

Greg goggled at Mycroft as he smiled, tipped a wink at both of them, and left.

 

* * *

 

 

“Are you . . .you’re taking me to . . .Molly?” Sherlock asked softly via intercom as he was escorted into the Omega carriage.  His scent was far too overpowering for a regular car; it would have driven any Alpha to near-madness if any had been exposed to the scent for more than three minutes.

As it was, Mycroft insisted on riding in the front of the carriage with the driver and only spoke to his brother through the intercom.  “Is that what you really want, Sherlock?”

“I don’t want to be alone anymore.”

Mycroft winced.  It was so strange, how this encounter with the right Alpha had changed his brother.  He could clearly remember just a year ago, when Sherlock had imperiously announced his intention to stay away from Alphas forevermore.  He’d ended his speech with “Alone protects me” (which was clearly only said to satisfy his drama-queen tendencies, and so blatantly disregarded Mycroft’s own contributions to Sherlock’s “protection” that it was nearly offensive), and that seemed to be all that needed to be said about that.

Until John Watson.

“So why don’t you want to go to John?” Mycroft asked.

Sherlock grunted and took a deep breath.  Another heat cramp, another release of his slick, and Mycroft couldn’t help thinking how satisfying it was to be able to afford luxuries like the Omega carriage.  “You paid him.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes.  Of _course_ his little brother reviewed their accounts for recent transactions.  “I did.”

“Tell me, Mycroft,” Sherlock said, his voice gaining weight and substance as he marshalled his anger to override his heat, “is that payment just the first installment of several?  How much did you two settle on?  How much am I _worth_?”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Mycroft demanded.

“You paid him off so he would give up his claim on me,” Sherlock stated.  “And I would like to think that he wouldn’t have given me up for a measly five thousand pounds.  God, I have to be worth at least twice that.”

“Sherlock!”

“What?”

“Do you really believe I would ever negotiate a price on you?”

A moment of blessed silence, then, “Yes.”

Mycroft grabbed his umbrella and squeezed his hand around it until his knuckles turned white.  “Clearly insane.”

“Excuse me?”

“I asked him why he’d taken up with you, and he said it was because he was clearly insane.”

Sherlock started saying something three times, then finally gave up and remained silent.

“He said that he would have to be insane, to put up with all of the chasing and guns and whatnot.”

“That would explain why you got him so inexpensively.”

Mycroft ignored the taunt.  Omegas were notoriously bitchy when they were on the verge of heat and their Alpha was otherwise occupied.  “I suppose anyone might say that, but it’s not what he said that was remarkable—it was the way he said it.”  Mycroft took a deep breath, then finally let his brother have everything he’d ever wanted.  “He loved it.  He loves you.  He didn’t ask for a pound more than what he’d spent on the license he had every intention of using, but when he realized that I didn’t approve of him, he _dropped his claim._ ”

“Why?” Sherlock asked after a moment, his voice thin and jagged.

“Because he’s a Knight,” Mycroft said in wonder.  He’d always fancied himself a Knight; he was definitely an advocate for Omega’s rights, and he was courteous and polite with them, always.  But meeting John Watson proved to him that it wasn’t enough, to exhibit the surface courtesies.  It was far more important to live the idea that Omegas were powerful, that they were deserving of more power than they had, and that an Alpha’s true duty in the world was to honor them for their godlike ability to bring life, and nurture it, and make it worth living.  “He loves you so much he would rather suffer a life without you than make you live a life without your family.”

Silence reigned for several minutes while the brothers collected themselves.  Finally, Sherlock broke the silence: “You’re clearly mistaken about his affections for me.  No one who claimed to love me would abandon me to you.”

Mycroft smirked.  “Do you love him, too?”

“With every beat of my heart, with every breath, with every thought,” Sherlock said, without hesitation.

“Shall I take you to him?”

“Yes, yes, yes please, Mycroft, please!”  Sherlock’s voice had regained that Omega wail, the ancient call for the mate.  It was shrill to Mycroft’s ears.

“Fine, fine.  We’ll be there in five minutes.”

“And, Mycroft?”

“Yes, Sherlock?”

“We will pay you back, that money.  You idiot.”

“You really are distracted, aren’t you?”

“What?”

“That deposit was taken from _your_ trust, not mine, brother dear.”

“Your executive authority over my trust ends tonight.”

“Bring your Alpha ‘round the Diogenes when you’re, er, done, and we’ll make it official.”

“Deal.”

 

* * *

 

 

John loved this flat.

He loved every single thing about it, from the strange flocked Victorian damask wallpaper, to the skull on the mantel, to the strange equipment strewn over every inch of the kitchen, to the jar full of eyeballs in the microwave.  He loved it because this was _Sherlock’s_ home, and his scent was everywhere.  He loved it because, as soon as he’d met Mrs. Hudson and understood where Mycroft Holmes had taken him (and after he’d checked his bank balance and goggled at it for a full ten seconds), he’d collapsed into the surprisingly comfortable red armchair and grinned.

The family approved of him.  They’d brought him to Sherlock’s home.  They’d introduced him to Sherlock’s caretaker, who had gladly and loudly exclaimed her intention to give up the caretaking of a gigantic child.  She’d pointed at the door to the C-flat and whispered to John, “safehouse,” then winked at him in a way that made him blush.  She’d told him she was watching the door for any rival Alphas, and she would call up to him when Sherlock’s brother brought him round.

“Then, if you don’t mind, I’ll be off to my sister’s for a couple of weeks,” she said loftily.  “Oh, my stars, young love!  How thrilling this is!”

He’d barely been able to choke out a “Thank you!” before she was off down the stairs, sighing dramatically and giggling in equal parts.  He grinned again.  The Holmes family approved.  They’d shown him to this flat, they’d paid him a ridiculous amount of money (all of which he’d be returning as soon as he found a job, yes he would, and he would surely pay back the license fee too, since it looked like he might finally, finally, _finally_ be able to use it), and he was fairly sure that Mycroft was moving the machinery of heaven itself to get Sherlock home.

Here.  To John.

He lifted a dressing gown from where it had been lazily discarded across the sofa and brought the material to his nose.  It was Sherlock, all Sherlock, all musk and formaldehyde and old books, all porcelain-skinned and curly-headed and bright-eyed.  It was his Sherlock, and John was getting high on the fumes of him—but it wasn’t enough.  He wanted the man himself, his Omega, his soon-to-be mate.

He removed his jumper, then unbuttoned his shirt.  He caught a whiff of himself; his Alpha musk was activated, and it smelled spicier, warmer.  His cock started to fill out, and on a hunch he brought Sherlock’s dressing gown back to his nose.

It was like kindling catching fire from a spark.  He felt the fire of his Alpha nature burning behind his eyes, and he growled, low and deep.  He had a mate.  Where was his mate?  He could smell Omega all around him, and not just any Omega, the best one in the world, the only one in the world for him.  He’d survived an abusive father, a dramatic sister, medical school, military training, and a blazing-hot desert, and he’d not known the entire time that he was surviving it all so he could meet this one person.  If he’d known about Sherlock he would have endured far worse.

But he had no more patience for endurance.  It was time. 

“John!  He’s home!”

It was time.

John vaulted down the seventeen steps until he was standing before the open front door.  He could barely string his disjointed thoughts together:

_Omega carriage, Sherlock, my Sherlock_

_Scent_

_Our scent_

_Mate!  My mate!_

_I will kill anything standing between us_

He was standing in front of the door of the Omega carriage before it had fully swung open.  He saw the surprise on Mycroft’s face when he exited the car and found John there.

“Get back into the car and close the door,” John warned him in his lowest growl.

Mycroft smiled, but did as he was told.  An Alpha this close to rut was like a lit powder keg: volatile, violent, and just looking for a reason to go off.

Sherlock sprang from the carriage directly into John’s arms.

_God, Sherlock, my Sherlock, oh god, mine_

“John, John!” Sherlock cried.  John hoisted him closer against him and Sherlock enthusiastically approved of this, judging by how his arms snaked around John and his legs curled around John’s hips.  It was suggestive and a little indecent, but the wall of scent coming off of Sherlock made it clear to everyone around them that this was _significant_.  He may as well have been wearing a wedding gown, if all of the smiles and wishes of congratulations were anything to go by.

“I love you,” John said as he turned towards the door.

“Oh, John,” Sherlock mumbled against John’s neck.  “Don’t ever leave me again.”

“I was doing it to get us licensed,” he protested.  He had maybe sixty seconds before Sherlock was removing all his clothing himself.

“I don’t care about that,” Sherlock said.

“Well, I do.”

“Why the hell did I fall in love with such a traditionalist moron?” Sherlock groused—then a cramp hit him and he wailed.

It was all John could do to wrench the door open, and he was greeted with the sight of Mrs. Hudson hauling a large, overstuffed suitcase in front of her and out the door.  She winced and daintily pinched her nose shut.  “Cor, that’s thick,” she said, then hustled out.  “Enjoy, boys!  Welcome home, Sherlock!”

“Kindly do shut up, Mrs. Hudson!” Sherlock cried back.  He was still wrapped around John like a limpet, and he wasn’t letting go.

John’s Alpha had no problems at all with this plan.  He kicked the door shut behind them.

“Don’t have to lock it,” Sherlock moaned, fusing his lips to John’s throat again, directly over his swollen scent gland.  “Mycroft will post a guard.”

“Right, good,” John said, then started the process of getting Sherlock into the safehouse, just more than six feet of Omega savagely humping him.  It was awkward, and tricky, and several times he came close to dumping the writing creature down the stairs—but he had never, _ever_ in his life been this happy.

“How are you so perfect, John?” Sherlock asked, and it was an honest question, as if he couldn’t believe his dumb luck.  “How?”

“You just got lucky?” John suggested.

“I’m never lucky.  Never.  This is doomed to fail, and I’ll be hurt horribly.”

“No one will ever hurt you, do you understand me?  Least of all me.”

“God, John.  Get me naked.  Hurry.”

Dominating the space in this surprisingly well-ventilated and spacious safehouse was a bed, richly clothed in silks and satins and furry things that would be ruined with slick in about ten seconds.  John would suck that nectar from the bedclothes, if Sherlock decided to nap.  He would. 

But first he would enjoy it from the source.  He dropped Sherlock onto that springy, soft bed and growled, “Not a problem.”

None of Sherlock’s clothing survived.  It possibly could have, with enough washings, but it was drenched in Omega scent, and it was better shredded.  John was careful enough with the fastenings, and making sure Sherlock wasn’t hurt by his overwhelming need to get his mouth on every inch of him, but the fabric itself was fucked.  John’s sharp Alpha teeth pressed into the fine cloth and sucked free every drop of Sherlock’s Omega essence.

“John,” Sherlock gasped as the last of his clothing disintegrated.  “Please, John, god.”

John didn’t say a word.  He bent low over Sherlock’s Omega cock, nuzzling into the fine, dark curls at its base.  “Hello,” he whispered softly.  Then he ran his tongue over it, then below it, lapping at the sparsely-furred flesh of Sherlock’s scrotum.  The essence that came from Sherlock’s cock and bathed his arse in slick during his heat came from here, and John licked and sucked on them as gently as he could before his tongue moved down, lower, deeper.

Sherlock keened when John’s tongue first passed over his anus, and John thought he might black out from the pleasure of his first taste of his Omega’s slick.  It was like warm milk and honey, like creamy caramels softened in the sun, like butterscotch ice cream.  He closed his eyes and went in; he focused all of his attention on the taste of Sherlock, the sound of him, the way he trembled and twitched, and the smell of how ready he was.  This was full heat, and it was pure bliss, and John wasn’t sure he was going to be able to survive it.

He gently traced his first two fingers around that swollen ring of muscle, and it opened for him immediately.

“I’m made for you now,” Sherlock purred.  “Do you feel it?  How my hole fits you perfectly?  I am so fucking wet for you, John.  I want your knot.  Come here, give it to me.”

“Mine,” he grunted as he did what he was told to do.  He scooped his hands around under Sherlock’s knees and lifted them in the same movement, and Sherlock went willingly, folding into himself, presenting every part of him for John’s use.

John’s mouth went dry.  His.  This was _his_ Omega, mewling and slippery and desperate for him.  This beautiful, intelligent, insane Omega had chosen _him_.  How was this his life?

He bent forward and tried to kiss Sherlock, but the way Sherlock was folded made it difficult.  They made eye contact as they wrestled with each other, and despite their arousal they found themselves giggling like children.

“Oi!  Give us a kiss, then!” John finally demanded, stopping shy of his Alpha voice.

“Yes, _mate_ ,” Sherlock said.

“None of that,” John said.  Somehow his mind had cleared a little bit.  Here he was, perched on the event horizon of the rest of his life, and just like with a supermassive black hole time stretched like taffy all around him, growing confusing and eventually irrelevant.  Here he was, perched on the edge of the rest of his life, and he found himself strangely able to take a step back and appreciate the scenery.

The scenery, he found, consisted of nothing more than a pair of wide, glass-green eyes that looked like galaxies.

“You don’t want me to obey, then?” Sherlock asked breathlessly.  He adjusted in John’s grasp and John felt the edge of Sherlock’s hole drag across his fully-distended cock.  He shuddered.

“I want you to be happy,” John said softly.  “I want you to have everything you ask for, every single thing, you brat.”

“Such a romantic,” Sherlock said, but his eyes were now shining with tears.

John smirked, then pivoted his hips.  His cock sank into Sherlock’s hole, just two scant inches that felt like a miracle.  “Yeah.  I’m a real romantic,” John said, then slammed his hips forward.

“Hah!” Sherlock huffed as his breath left him.  John’s cock was fully sheathed, and it was true: Sherlock felt custom-made to take him, all of him.  He swayed his hips a couple of times, testing the feel of it and trying with all his might to stay conscious, because there was _no way_ a human body was made to feel all of this.  It was ridiculous for anything to feel this good.

“God, John, you have to move,” Sherlock said.  The tears that had filled his eyes had spilled, and the tracks shone like glass.  “Fuck me.  Bond me.  Mark me.  Knot me.  _Breed_ me.”  He stammered the words like a religious incantation.

“Oh, god, Sherlock . . .I _will_.”

John burst into flame, all Alpha, as he pulled his cock free then slammed it home again.  He could hear Sherlock’s enthusiastic cries, could feel his own muscles building tension, his lungs pumping like great bellows in a furnace, and he eyed the scent gland standing scarlet on the left side of Sherlock’s neck.  He growled and showed his sharpened teeth. 

“Bite,” Sherlock said, bending his head to the right to expose the mark. 

“Mine,” John hissed.  His cock was pistoning in and out of Sherlock, and every time he bottomed out in him Sherlock let out a small sound of rapture, a building symphony of sound and scent.

“Yes.”

“Bite me, too,” John offered.  He felt the fire expanding inside of him, looking for a way out.  There was only one, and everything was funneling into his belly now.

“ _Yes_ ,” Sherlock moaned.

And there, the knot, the swelling at the base of his cock, moving up the shaft and now testing Sherlock’s hole.

“Oh!” Sherlock cried.

“That’s my knot,” John groaned.  “I’m going to push it into you, and you’ll take it.  You don’t think you can right now, because it feels huge.  It feels huge for me, too, love.  But you _can_ take it, and you will, because that’s how we bond.”

Surely Sherlock knew all this, and John knew Sherlock knew it—but it pleased John to say it.  Maybe not as much as it apparently pleased Sherlock to hear it; he flailed, then grabbed onto John and tilted his hips.  “Give it to me, then,” he said.  “Force it into me.  Fuck me on it.  God, John, knot me.”

“As you wish,” John said, and the warmth had found the right place.  The knot was fully formed, and it was as large as his fist.  He pulled Sherlock’s buttocks apart to see how big the hole had become from his exertions.  He just needed a little more, and by pulling those fleshy muscles just a little further apart, he found the room he needed.  With one colossal shove, he buried his knot in Sherlock’s arse.

John knew the instant he’d found Sherlock’s g-spot; Sherlock froze, then howled, his head falling to the right.  “Bite!” Sherlock cried, and he came, his cock bathing John’s belly and cock in his essence.

John was done.  He fell forward and sank his teeth into Sherlock’s neck.  The combined essence—his and Sherlock’s—bathed his tongue as his orgasm began.

Then he felt Sherlock’s teeth, not as sharp as his but sharp enough for the purpose—pierce his own skin over the scent gland. 

The combined essence moved into him, flooded every part of him, rewriting his DNA.  _This_ was his essence now, this combined scent.  They were One now.  He would never feel whole or right without Sherlock, not ever again.

Sherlock ended the bite first and took a huge gasp of air into his lungs.  “Oh my god,” he gusted.

John finally ended his bite as well.  “Sherlock.”

“Hmm?”

“You are fantastic.”

“Mm.  Yes, so are you.”

Sherlock tried to shift his hips and winced.

“Yeah, that’s why they say to not move during,” John chided him gently.

“I deleted it.”

“You’ve got to stop deleting things.”

“You can remember the things I delete.”

“Did I—did I just become your external storage?”

Sherlock grinned.  “Yes.”

John sighed, but smiled.  “As you wish.”

“Yes, keep saying that, too.  That should serve you well in this life of ours.”

“Ours.”

Sherlock smiled shyly.  “Yes.  Forevermore.”

John started to smile, but it turned into a blissful grimace as he orgasmed again and filled Sherlock even more with his come. 

“So, er, yeah, sorry about that?” he attempted.

“About what?”

John frowned.  “I can’t imagine you were in earnest, about me, um.  _Breeding_ you.”

“Huh?”  Sherlock blinked, then apparently remembered a few of the things he’d said from inside his frenzy.  “Oh.  Right.  Well, Mycroft was also concerned we were being rash, and he gave me a contraceptive.”

“Those are only guaranteed to be sixty-percent effective.”

“Trust a doctor to know that.”

“You don’t seem worried.”

“Should I?  We’re licensed, after all.  You’ve taken all the fun out of it.  I really am quite disappointed in you for that.”  Sherlock tipped him a look that assured John he was joking.  “If I fall, I fall.  I know you’ll catch me.”

“I will.  Forevermore.”  John moaned through another orgasm.

“So, is it _that word_ that does it for you?”

“What word?”  John felt playful and mischievous.

“Is it?”

“Are you going to say it so we can determine if it is?”

“What?”

“Sherlock.”

“John.”

“One of us has to say it.”

“Why?  Are you starting to experience some . . .buildup?”

“Very, very funny.”

“It’s not as if you haven’t pumped at least a gallon into me by now.”

“Fifty CCs, tops.”

“That’s disgusting.”

“Is it?”

“John—”

 _“Forevermore_ ,” John sighed as he came again.

“No, not really,” Sherlock purred as he writhed, and John had a feeling this first heat would last a full week.

“I hope your caretaker left your refrigerator stocked.”

“Mine and hers, too.”

“Brilliant.”

“Thank you.”

“Brat.”

“You love me.”

John felt his knot recede, just a little.  He leaned forward and finally, _finally_ claimed that kiss he’d demanded.  “I really do.”

Sherlock smiled, and the heavens shone, and he was in nest with the love of his life.  All was right with the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PHEW. 
> 
> Well, I hope that was worth the wait, my lovely ones. We will definitely be wrapping this up in the next few days with some fluffy epilogue.
> 
> I so much appreciate your time, reading this fic. I hope you've enjoyed reading it as much as I've enjoyed writing it, because I've enjoyed the holy hell out of writing it. If you don't mind dropping a few words before you go, my Muse would be DELIGHTED. ~SW


	10. A Study in Pink

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock’s eyes glittered. John felt his blood rise to his face. “Who’s on forensics?” Sherlock asked.  
> “Anderson,” Lestrade answered, his attitude reluctant.  
> “Anderson won’t work with me,” Sherlock muttered darkly.  
> “He won’t be your assistant.”  
> “No,” Sherlock said, then glanced at his mate. “John will.”  
> Lestrade rocked back on his heels. “John?”  
> “Detective Inspector, this is my mate, Dr. John Watson.”

Sherlock stepped out of 221 Baker Street for the first time in a week and handed his father a cup of coffee.

“Morning, son,” the Alpha said from his place on the stoop.

Sherlock nodded and sat beside him.  He took a sip of his own coffee and shifted his seat a little; his body was still resettling itself after his heat, and the bond was still a new thing.  He wondered if the itching under his skin, the incessant need to be near John, would fade.  He wasn’t sure if he wanted it to.

Mr. Holmes noticed his son shifting around and smirked.  “I should meet your Alpha.”

“John,” Sherlock corrected mildly. 

“Yes, John.”

“Mummy is in with him now.”  Sherlock pulled idly at his shirt sleeve.  “It was getting . . .uncomfortable.”

Mr. Holmes took a sip of his coffee, then leaned his face back and took a deep breath.  “You don’t smell pregnant.”

Sherlock smirked.  “I don’t think I am.  Not for John’s lack of trying.”

Mr. Holmes frowned.  “I’ll thank you to keep that kind of comment to yourself.”

Sherlock chuckled.  He loved riling his father when he had a chance to.  “I didn’t expect you and Mummy to stand guard.”

“It’s our ancient right.”

“Yes, but how did Mycroft get you here so fast?”

“Helicopter.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.  “Of course.  Helicopter.  Mycroft and his infernal helicopters.”

“Besides, we got nothing but pleased neighbors bringing us treats.  I might have gained a stone sitting here.”

“I am sorry we kept you so long.”

“Don’t be,” Mr. Holmes said, stretching his legs out in front of him.  “Mycroft picked up shifts here and there so we could get some rest.  We kipped in the upstairs bedroom.”

Sherlock nodded.  “We’re going to rent that room.”

Mr. Holmes smiled.  “Planning another heat?”

“Eventually.  Don’t want to have to kick out a lodger, if it ever comes to that.”

“I’m so happy for you, son.”

Sherlock blinked in surprise and turned to face his father.  Neither of them had been very demonstrative through the years; he and Mycroft had very much taken after their mother, aspiring to be as intelligent, no-nonsense, and devoted (eventually).  Upon catching his father’s gaze, however, Sherlock was reminded of all the times his father had been there for him, the silent, strong spectator at his violin recitals, the one who’d governed his earliest experiments, the one who had kindled his love of apiology.  The look on his face now—the smile, the shining eyes, the unwavering way he held Sherlock’s regard—was familiar and good.

“Thank you.”

“So . . .still going to carry on with the Met, then?”

Sherlock nodded.  “Yes.  Absolutely.”

“John doesn’t mind?”

Sherlock smiled.  He couldn’t help himself.  “He’s eager for it.”

“He is?”

“Yes.  He . . .rather enjoys a good adventure.”

“Oh!” Mr. Holmes said, pulling his mobile from his jacket pocket.  Sherlock was amused to realize that his father was wearing a button up shirt, a jumper, and a jacket, just as John had been when they’d first met.

He put the thought aside for now.  There would be time to dwell on patterns later.

“Mycroft sent me this video,” his father said, putting on a pair of reading glasses and tapping at his phone.  “I’m still not quite sure how to play it—”

“Give me that,” Sherlock chided, pulling the phone from his father’s grip.  “What is it?”

“Apparently it’s video of your mate staring down a helicopter and single-handedly shooting ten snipers.”

Sherlock shuddered.  “Oh.”

Mr. Holmes smirked.  “Should I be here as you watch that?”

“Er. Right.  Perhaps we should both go inside.  I’ll just.”

“Say no more,” his father said as they stood and turned back towards the glossy black of the door.  They embraced awkwardly before going inside.  “I’ll just find your mum, shall I?”

“Upstairs,” Sherlock said distractedly.  “Kitchen.”  He jogged up the stairs and swept into his bedroom.  He pressed play on the video and immediately understood the context: The shot was from inside another of Mycroft’s damned helicopters, and he was gazing down at a seriously pissed-off John Watson, who was holding a pistol in his hands and snarling.

_“DROP YOUR WEAPON, DR. WATSON.”_

_“Drop yours.”_

Sherlock felt his face flush.  Before he went any further he sent a copy of the video to his own private e-mail account.  Then he unbuttoned his shirt, slid his hand over the bondmark on his neck, and pressed the combined essence of his Alpha and himself to his nose.

_John oh John fantastic John my John_

He pressed play again and watched the video with a growing sense of pride and excitement and, honestly, arousal.

_Mine_

 

* * *

 

 

John laughed at the photo before him: Sherlock, a two year old toddler, running naked in the tall grass, his face turned over his shoulder and graced with a giant, carefree grin.

“I’ll need that one, too,” he told Mrs. Holmes and handed her phone back to her.

“You will get them all,” she said.  “Oh, John.”  She placed her hand over his on the table, then frowned at him.  “I was supposed to scare you, you know.”

“You?” he asked.  Yes, she had the same eyes as his mate, and the same sharp tongue, and the same abrupt manner, but those things were precious to him now, not frightening.

She sighed.  “Yes.  I thought I would come in here and try to figure out what sort of Alpha could charm my ridiculous boy into a bond so quickly.  I admit, I suspected some sort of manipulation on your part, and I wanted to be sure that you understood how much we love him, and how very much violence I would do to anyone who hurt him.”

John looked down at her hand over his, then placed his other hand over hers.  “In that, Mummy, we are in complete agreement.”

She nodded.  “I know.  I saw the video.”  She gave him a warm, almost wicked smile. 

“What video?”

“Ah.  Hmm.  Perhaps the less said, the better.”

John narrowed his gaze.  “Mummy.”

“Sherlock will have it soon, and I know he’ll show it to you.”  She smiled prettily at him, and it reminded him jarringly of his mate.  “He loves you.”

“And I love him.”

“I can see it.”

John nodded, then turned abruptly when he heard the sound of unfamiliar footsteps climbing the stairs of their home.  He bristled and rose.  It was too close to their bonding for anyone but family to come by.

Mr. Holmes was already there, blocking the entrance to the flat.  “Hello,” he said mildly, but John could hear the danger in his voice, the sound of a practiced defender, a battle-hardened warrior moving into place. 

The man at the door was a silver-haired Beta with a kind, if harried, face.  “I’m here to see Sherlock.”

“For what reason?” John asked, just as mildly as Mr. Holmes had, and with just as much menace.

The man nodded, apparently having scented the overwhelming Alpha pheromones, then stuck his hand out.  “Greg Lestrade, Detective Inspector.”

Mr. Holmes shook hands with him first, then John.  “Is there trouble?” John asked.

“Afraid so,” Lestrade answered.  “Suicides.”

John frowned.  “Suicides?  Surely that’s not something NSY needs to investigate?”

Mrs. Holmes approached carefully, but steadily, a newspaper in her hand.  “Detective Inspector,” she said evenly. 

He bowed, and John was gratified to see that the Beta knew better than to reach out for the Omega’s hand.  There were too many protective Alphas in the room to allow for that.

Mummy handed John the newspaper.  He glanced at the headline: _NEW SCOTLAND YARD STUMPED BY STRING OF SUICIDES_

“We don’t usually investigate suicides, you’re right,” Lestrade responded.  “But these are pretty-high profile because they’re all the same: out of the way locations, the exact same chemical signature of the drug taken, no prior signs of depression or suicidal ideations.”

“And two of the suicides were rather public persons,” John said softly.  “Sir Jeffrey Patterson and Beth Davenport, Junior Minister for Transport.”

“Right.”

“And you’re coming to Sherlock now?  Why?”

Greg kicked his toe against the floor in a gesture that seemed oddly childlike.  “Primarily because we wanted to be sure he’d had enough time to, er.  You know.”

“I do,” John said, a trace of smugness in his voice.

Lestrade looked up, startled.  “Really?  You?”

“Oi!” John said, with only a trace of real offense.  He could see the playfulness in the Beta’s face as well, and he thought it quite likely they could get on very well.

Lestrade grinned.  “Well done, you.”

John crossed his arms over his body.  “Why now?” he said firmly.

“There’s been a fourth.”

Sherlock swept out of his bedroom, color high on his cheeks, and without a word handed his father a mobile.  The elder Alpha smirked and stuffed it into his pocket.  “A fourth?” Sherlock asked with no other effort at civility.  “Where?”

Lestrade nodded.  “Brixton, Lauriston Gardens.”

“What’s new about this one?  You wouldn’t come to get me if there wasn’t something different.”

“You know how they never leave notes?”

“Yeah.”

“This one did.”

Sherlock’s eyes glittered.  John felt his blood rise to his face.  “Who’s on forensics?” Sherlock asked.

“Anderson,” Lestrade answered, his attitude reluctant.

“Anderson won’t work with me,” Sherlock muttered darkly.

“He won’t be your assistant.”

“No,” Sherlock said, then glanced at his mate.  “John will.”

Lestrade rocked back on his heels.  “John?”

“Detective Inspector, this is my mate, Dr. John Watson.”

“Er, yeah, we’ve met.”

“Not officially,” John supplied, hoping to wedge himself into this conversation somehow since he was being spoken of like he wasn’t in the room.

“Will you come?” Lestrade asked again.

“Not in a police car.  We’ll be right behind.”

“Thank you.”  Lestrade nodded politely at everyone in the room, then turned and left.

Sherlock smirked, then clapped his hands together and twirled like he had just been given the keys to the kingdom.  “Brilliant!  Oh, it’s like Christmas.”  He winked.  “John, did you get a whiff of him?  He seems to have struck lucky with my former intended.”

John’s jaw dropped.  “What, Molly Hooper?”

“ _Who_ , not what, John,” Sherlock said, swirling into his great coat (brought from Eastbourne by his loving family) and tying a blue scarf around his neck.

“Wait, wait,” John said softly, pulling the scarf from Sherlock’s neck.  “It isn’t that cold, and I want everyone to see that.”  He tapped softly at the bond mark on Sherlock’s neck.  “At least until we can have a proper ceremony.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but smiled indulgently.  “You and your traditions.”

John turned to Sherlock’s parents.  “You have to be there, of course.”  He gave Mummy a quick kiss on the cheek.  “We’re off out.”

“I know,” she said pleasantly.  “But I still don’t think it’s decent, all that running about.”

“Who cares about decent?  The game, Mummy, is on!”  He gave her a gruff kiss on the cheek of his own and swept down the stairs.

They emerged onto the street, excited and happy, just as Mrs. Hudson’s cab pulled up to the kerb.  She got out and got a pair of enthusiastic hugs, and promises to share a brunch soon, then the bondmates got into her cab.

John watched his new home recede in the view from the back window, then he turned to his side and saw Sherlock smiling at him.

“Say it again,” Sherlock said softly, taking John’s hand.

“What, forevermore?” 

Sherlock trembled, then grimaced at him.  “No.”

John grinned.  “Everything you ask for,” he said softly, bringing Sherlock’s hand to his mouth and kissing it gently.  “Every single thing.”

“Let’s go catch us a serial killer,” Sherlock whispered, his eyes dancing with happiness.

John hoped his own eyes showed his joy.  “As you wish.”

 

* * *

 

 

Later that night, after the crime scene and the stakeout, after the drugs bust and the standoff with a madman marked for death, after the shot John had taken to protect Sherlock’s life as he’d sworn to do, Sherlock slept, safe in his Alpha’s arms.

He was in his Mind Palace, that great hall with the fluttering RAMC banners, and the king on the throne was his mate, his John.  He approached the dais, and John stood, then moved to the next chair, one that was slightly less magnificent but just as important.  He reached for Sherlock’s hand, and Sherlock gave it as he took his seat.

Sherlock Holmes had never believed in love, not really.  He’d thought even his parents little more than victims of biology.  He’d always thought himself destined for more, for greatness—but if tonight had proved anything to him, it was that he was greater, more effective, more resplendent, with his Alpha at his side.

Separately, they were an Omega genius and an Alpha Knight.  Together, they would make history.

 

*END*

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll admit it, it's kind of difficult to finish this one. I hate to leave them, ya know?
> 
> But this is the right place to end it, after all--end at the beginning, that's the way it's done.
> 
> Again, thank you all for stopping by and dropping off the kudos and kind words. You're the reason I do this. <3
> 
> xoxo ~SW

**Author's Note:**

> PS: You can find me on tumblr at https://www.tumblr.com/blog/sherlockwho-itsme. I guarantee that every time I post a new fic I'll update there.


End file.
